


A Wound That Love Had Opened

by natsubaki



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: 31 Day Challenge, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Moral Ambiguity, Reunions, Separations, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Tokyo Ghoul: re
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 40,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4928740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natsubaki/pseuds/natsubaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tsukiyama met the harbinger of his destruction and waited.</p><p>A tale of loosely-connected ficlets from the start to the end and a beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the gold of the universe

**Author's Note:**

> I’d originally created this challenge for myself years ago for a different fandom, in the spirit of the 31_days LiveJournal community, but never did anything with it. I found it again in my files a few months ago, and oddly, I felt it fit with tsukikane. Each chapter's goal is a 1000-word minimum, and the chapter titles are all lines from Pablo Neruda’s poems (my favorite poet!). This collection will trace the tsukikane relationship mostly through canon events, from their first meeting through Tsukiyama’s reintroduction arc in :re. 
> 
> The lines of poetry in the beginning are from Neruda's "Sonnet VII" (translation by Stephen Tapscott), and any later occurrences woven through the story will be from the same poem.

> Come with me _, I said, and no one knew_  
>  _where, or how my pain throbbed,_  
>  _no carnations or barcaroles for me,_  
>  _only a wound that love had opened._

 

“Welcome,” a voice calls to him, and it’s new. It’s soft and gentle, as sweet as the bell chimes on the entrance door.

Tsukiyama Shuu smiles as he enters, letting the door fall closed behind him. He takes in a deep breath and holds it within his chest. The bright fragrance of freshly-roasted coffee lingers about the shop. There’s something new in the air, too: that voice wasn’t the only sweet thing in this room.

How mysterious.

The usual girl is barking at him from behind the bar, but Tsukiyama ignores her after giving his greetings and strides directly over to the cafe’s latest novelty. “Oh? I haven't seen you around here. Tell me, what’s your name?”

He is petite. Unassuming. A complete surprise.

When Tsukiyama had heard rumors of a ghoul who’d fended off a Dove, he’d expected someone a bit tougher. Perhaps even a bit hulking. But definitely bigger.

This person, though shrinking and tiny, shines like the fading sun at dusk, with cheeks colored just as rosy.

It is utterly delightful.

“Kaneki,” the young man replies, clutching his tray against his chest like a shield and closing in on himself. “Kaneki Ken.”

“Kaneki-kun, is it?” Tsukiyama says, mainly just to keep his command of this space as he circles around the younger man’s small figure. He’s just as delicate and has the coloring of a kokeshi doll: smooth, pale skin and hair as black as the dead of night. If Tsukiyama were to dress him up in a fine kimono, Kaneki would be a perfect match. A medical eyepatch covers one of his gray eyes, which Tsukiyama finds peculiar: ghouls normally don’t have scars or deformities—their regenerative abilities usually prevented such permanent damage. Such an injury would have to have been severe, or perhaps he’d been born with the loss. It makes it even stranger that he could have gone up against a ghoul investigator and lived to tell the tale, considering such a disadvantage.

“A guy with an eyepatch...you must be the ghoul everyone keeps talking about,” Tsukiyama remarks, enjoying the way Kaneki’s scent shifts with each completed lap: surprise, interest, and a little bit of fear. “The tough boy who could repel an investigator…”

A short rush of pride, quelled by a lingering note of dread. How cute.

He just can’t help himself. Tsukiyama leans in closely and inhales along Kaneki’s nape, the other man giving a startled jump. It’s just too easy to tease him.

“Hey!” the Kirishima girl calls out, spoiling his amusement. “If you’re not here as a customer, then get out. Your creepy face is getting in the way.”

Tsukiyama straightens up. Sighs. It’s not like the shop is bustling, but some things never change. “You’re still as inelegant as ever, Kirishima-san…” She gives a tempered snort, and Tsukiyama does his best not to laugh.

When he turns back, Kaneki is staring up at him, open curiosity on his face. He looks like a baby lamb. It causes a trembling in Tsukiyama’s gut.

“I guess that’s my cue,” Tsukiyama announces, smiling. He rests a hand on Kaneki’s shoulder, feeling the meat. “I’ll have to come by another time to enjoy my leisurely cup of coffee. Maybe Yoshimura will be around, too.”

Kaneki doesn’t say anything. His attention is still fully on Tsukiyama, as if caught in a trance. Tsukiyama feels like the Cheshire Cat, a morsel captured between his blade-like teeth.

“See you later, Kaneki-kun,” he says, low and directed, “Let’s meet again.” He means it.

The sun is just beginning to set as Tsukiyama steps back outside. It sets the leaves on surrounding trees ablaze with radiant light. A cool breeze starts to pick up. He tugs at his sweater; he should have worn a jacket today. It’s November, but it feels like winter is trying to make its arrival early.

“Kaneki Ken,” he murmurs to himself. He wonders how it’s written. The family name likely uses the characters for “money” and “tree,” but Tsukiyama wrinkles his nose at such a crass reading. “Golden tree” is much more appealing, although a different phonetic. The characters have the same basis, anyway, so it’s not that far of a stretch. His eyes sweep his surroundings. Tsukiyama thinks that the name fits the man. There’s a subtle strength to it, as well as a fleeting beauty. Yes, it fits his seemingly dual qualities: fragility covering some kind of hidden might.

Something special.

The first name, though… The common reading would be “sword,” but that just doesn’t seem to suit him. Tsukiyama mentally flits through other possibilities. “Polish” or “sharpen,” however… Perhaps.

This entity called Kaneki Ken is shrouded in mystery. Not only his unique scent, but also rumors of his prowess and power...as well as what’s hidden behind that eyepatch. Tsukiyama has been a frequenter of the 20th ward for a while now, not to mention his access to information merited by his own name, so why hadn’t he ever heard of this particular ghoul before? Here, or elsewhere?

He’d been chased away by the Kirishima girl before he’d had a chance to properly meet this new addition. But Tsukiyama had noticed the latent interest. How Kaneki’s sweet scent had shifted subtly, deepening. Becoming more inviting. Tsukiyama had relished in it, for those few short moments. It was a scent familiar yet completely foreign, something he’d yet to come across in his years of the gourmet pursuit.

Kaneki is a ghoul. He shouldn’t have stimulated Tsukiyama’s appetite as he did. Ghoul meat is, after all, unpalatable, especially to someone with his own refined tastes. He’d dabbled in it before, just for the experience. It left him with much to be desired, and his kagune had acted strange and had felt brittle for a week after the meal. Tsukiyama had had no desire to try ghoul meat again.

Until now.

Tsukiyama is fine with waiting. There will be another time for them to meet. He’ll create the opportunity himself.

Certainly, this is going to be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup...I'm already behind on this challenge lol. I'll either catch up or just start from today instead of the beginning of the month. Since this is a daily writing challenge, please bear with me! On a logistics note, would readers rather see these daily as they're written, or would it be better to upload in 5 or 6 batches since each chapter will be more ficlet-sized?
> 
> [kanekuinke @ tumblr](http://kanekuinke.tumblr.com)


	2. a leaf of the tree of our love

“So this is Kamii University…?” Tsukiyama wonders aloud as he strolls through the campus grounds. It has an old feel to it—strangely claustrophobic, even—despite the well-kept landscaping. The buildings are tightly clustered together, their exteriors harkening back to an age before they were born. Trees likely as old or even older than his grandparents sit thickly, their branches intertwining, creating a canopy of multicolored leaves. It’s a stark contrast to the university he attends, with its massive, updated buildings and sprawling layout.

He supposes Kaneki must feel comfortable here. The students, from what Tsukiyama has seen, are all plain and average. No one really seems to stand out. Not that Kamii is a poor or subpar institution—far from it. But this is a place where one could get lost in the comfort of anonymity, passing through the years and curriculum without bringing close scrutiny to oneself.

If he truly wanted to blend in, he probably should have chosen a different outfit. Tsukiyama notices people taking notice of him, murmuring under their breaths. He’s used to the attention, but since it’s of no benefit to him at the moment, he easily ignores it, continuing his meandering of the campus.

No one strikes his fancy, even for a snack.

The morning autumn air is crisp and chills Tsukiyama’s lungs. It makes him feel alive. Tsukiyama sniffs: it’s earthy and fresh, damp from residual dew still lingering about the grass. It’s a pleasant scent, but not the one he’s looking for.

Tsukiyama strolls randomly, hands warmed in his pants’ pockets, his nose alert. He melds his face into an expression of faint disinterest, discrete enough not to alarm others that he does not belong here. That he’s hunting for something specific.

And there it is, that uniquely sweet fragrance. It wafts over to Tsukiyama lazily, thin in the air and growing heavier with each successive step. Tsukiyama follows it, letting it fill his senses, until his head is buzzing and his stomach aching.

The object of his fascination is hunched over at a table, alone and absorbed with his reading. Perfect. He doesn’t even notice Tsukiyama approaching.

“Kaneki-kun,” Tsukiyama calls, scraping the ground with his foot to announce his presence. Kaneki perks up at his name, and before he can turn around, Tsukiyama slides next to him, perching himself upon the table. “Hey.”

“Uh...hello,” comes the timid reply. Kaneki snaps his book shut, a light tint to his pale face. “Um…”

“Tsukiyama Shuu,” he provides, not taking offense. It’s not like he introduced himself back at Anteiku, although he’s certain his name must have been mentioned afterward. “Is it okay if I sit down?” he asks as he takes the seat opposite the man anyway. Ever since Kaneki piqued his interest, Kaneki lost any choice he had. His fate had been sealed. Tsukiyama always gets what he wants.

Kaneki puts his book down and traces a finger along its corner. “Um, sure.” He looks visibly uncomfortable, shying away from him, but Tsukiyama isn’t sure if it’s just nervousness from having someone notice him or if those coffee shop meddlers planted a damper in his plans. Just what exactly has Kaneki heard…?

“Tsukiyama-san,” Kaneki says, and it’s so hesitant it’s cute, “why have you come to Kamii?”

“To meet you,” he instantly replies, pointing directly at Kaneki. He eases back a little at Kaneki’s surprise. “What would you think if I really mean that?”

Kaneki laughs, bright and uncertain, leaning his face onto his hand. “I wonder…” he trails off, his smile lingering. He picks his book back up and opens it, shielding himself behind its pages.

Yes, Tsukiyama definitely picked correctly with this one. His tastes are never wrong.

His eyes focus on the book’s cover. “A book on martial arts?” It’s a bit shocking, considering the person in question. Kaneki looks meek and gentle. But, there are those rumors to consider… “I’m surprised. You seem more like the literary type. Is this a hobby?”

“Usually that’s the case, but...it’s a recent interest, really. Since these are dangerous times.”

Tsukiyama can’t argue with that, although the idea of danger never really occurred to him. He’s an apex predator, and his prey are his playthings. Even baiting the CCG is a game. He’s rarely felt threatened in his life, and whenever he has, it’s been to his own miscalculations.

But, he learns. He’s never made the same mistake twice.

“So this is for a sense of self-protection, then? If that’s the case, I can’t imagine it’ll remain interesting for long. Won’t you get bored? I know I would...”

Kaneki smiles, soft. There’s a light dusting of pink upon his cheeks. Tsukiyama wants to bite into them, savor the succulent flesh, roll the fat along his tongue. His stomach turns. “I used to think that way,” Kaneki starts, “but lately I’ve found myself enjoying this kind of thing. Before, when I’d read fight scenes in other works, I couldn’t really get into them. Couldn’t imagine them well. But now I find them much more interesting—so I guess this research is worth it, even just for that…”

“Hmm, I can understand that,” Tsukiyama says, leaning in. “The more knowledge you have about the topics in a work, the deeper you can understand it, and the more you enjoy it.” Kaneki has put his book down, his eyes clear and wide. Tsukiyama smiles, encouraged. He walks his fingers across the table idly. “Even one mere sentence can be interpreted in a number of ways. In my opinion, the closer a reader can get to an author’s mindset, the more pleasureable the reading experience is.”

Across from him, the young man nods, almost unconsciously. Tsukiyama closes his eyes and continues, his hands rising to his chest. “If I can envision myself walking within the story world, directed by the words, then I can consider the story to be exciting and moving.”

“You really like books, don’t you?” There’s longing in the words, a small ache.

Tsukiyama opens his eyes, his gaze faraway. He knows he shouldn’t admit this, but there’s something about the young man—perhaps his honest vulnerability, or his pure innocence—that makes Tsukiyama want to lay himself bare at his feet and at the same time devour him until there’s nothing left. It’s odd and utterly irrational, but he decides not to think about it and instead takes a gamble. “It’s only when I’m immersed in the world of a book that I can forget myself and everything else. A lot of fiction is what supported me through painful and difficult times.”

There’s a shifting on Kaneki’s face. His eyes widen fractionally, his soft expression deflating minutely, but enough for Tsukiyama to catch. Tsukiyama fears he may lose him. “You’ve read Takatsuki’s stuff, right? I heard it from another Anteiku patron…”

“Oh...yes…” Kaneki says, pulled back to the present. “There’s strength to her work, although the style is delicate. I’m really drawn in by her vague kind of style.”

 _Eccellente_. _That_ woman proved useful, after all. Just a little more pushing… “The same for me. I see...Takatsuki Sen…” He cups his chin, in rapid contemplation. Looks down at Kaneki’s half-empty paper cup. “There’s this place I know of...it’s a favorite of mine. The owner of the cafe really loves books. It has a calm atmosphere, with the smell of coffee and old books perfectly blending. I’ve heard that Takatsuki Sen frequents it.”

“Really?!”

Ah, the way his eyes light up is a thrill. Tsukiyama can’t wait to be the last one to see the light fade from them.

He leans in closer, mirroring his prey, stretching his arms out. “We should go together sometime. We could even bring in reading recommendations for each other. Doesn’t that sound good?”

Unfathomably, his prey doesn’t immediately take the bait. Instead, he looks down, his eyebrows drawn taut. His smile has receded from enthusiasm to apprehension.

This would not do.

“I wonder if Kirishima-san said something about me,” he says with a short smile. Kaneki looks up and makes a noise of protest, but Tsukiyama cuts him off. So polite, so darling. “It’s okay, I get it. I’m always been easily misunderstood,” he waves his hand. “People think I put on airs, so they tend to keep me at a distance. But when I try to get along with them, they accuse me of being overly familiar, yet I’m disagreeable, too. I can’t ever win.”

He looks up at Kaneki. “When Kamishiro-san died, I lost the person I could talk to.” Yes, invoke the magic word… “But, I felt something similar to her from you. You know...there aren’t a lot of ghouls who are into reading. Most ghouls are rather vulgar, right? However…” He lowers his eyes, looks up at Kaneki through long eyelashes. “All I ever wanted was a friend with whom I could discuss the things we liked in a quiet place.”

Tsukiyama allows a pregnant pause, letting his prey digest his words before he takes his next action. Before Kaneki has made a decision, he swings around and shifts off the bench. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’ll take my leave…”

He’s walked six paces before he hears that soft voice call out. “Um, Tsukiyama-san. I… If it’s okay, I wouldn’t mind talking with you about books…”

A grin spreads across Tsukiyama mouth. He salivates.

Hook. Line. And sinker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh so late lol;;;;


	3. slow autumn at my window

He checks his cell phone for what must be the fourteenth time in the past ten minutes. It’s not that Tsukiyama is late; it’s that he’s much too early. Kaneki tugs on the short sleeves of his shirt and crosses his arms, wishing he’d brought a jacket. He’s about to flip his phone open for the fifteenth time when he hears his name from behind.

“Kaneki-kun!” Tsukiyama calls out to him as he approaches. “I hope you weren’t waiting for long.”

Kaneki laughs nervously, scratching at the back of his neck before sliding his hand down to rest at his chin. “Not at all,” he says, quickly retreating his arms to crossed against his chest, lest the redness of his knuckles were to give him away.

“I see… Well, it looks like we both came prepared,” Tsukiyama remarks, eyeing him up and down. It makes Kaneki want to shirk away—he’s so scrawny compared to this man, their athletic outfits both drawing attention to this fact. “Tell me, have you ever played squash before?” Tsukiyama asks as he starts walking, Kaneki falling into step alongside him.

“No,” Kaneki admits, already feeling a little hot. “It’s completely new.”

Tsukiyama hums, swinging the pair of racquets in his hand in an upward arc. “It’s not that hard; I’ll explain it to you when we get there.”

Kaneki makes a somewhat strangled noise of assent, attempting to quell the building anxiety in his gut. He’s really not that good at sports. Why he agreed, he doesn’t really know. What Kaneki _does_ know is that he’s about to make a giant fool out of himself in front of someone he’s just recently met.

He wants to slap himself.

It turns out to be just as horrible as he anticipated. Tsukiyama had said, “Just follow my lead,” and Kaneki had _tried_ , but he was all left feet, tripping over himself and smacking into the walls. He’d once launched his racquet across the court—narrowly missing Tsukiyama, who it turned out had great reflexes—and had received the ball with his face twice.

But for all his flubs, Tsukiyama had been gracious and good-natured, mildly teasing Kaneki as he tripped yet again. “You’re pretty hopeless at this, aren’t you?” he laughs, jogging after the escaping ball.

Kaneki rolls onto his back and groans, earning another laugh from the other man.

“Just one more match, and we’ll call it a game.”

Well, at least his suffering would be over soon.

A hand looms over his face. “Come on.” Accepting it, Kaneki is pulled back onto his feet, his vision righting itself. He flexes his fingers as Tsukiyama takes a serving stance, and then they’re back at it, tracking the ricocheting ball across the room. The hand that Tsukiyama had briefly held tingles.

He thinks he’s finally starting to get the hang of it. He’s able to return a series of Tsukiyama’s strikes, and just when he thinks he has the point, Kaneki feels himself collide into the wall.

Only it’s not the wall, it’s Tsukiyama, and both are falling in a tangle of limbs, the wind knocked from them. Kaneki thinks his racquet may have hit his head on the way down, and it takes him a while to regroup himself. To register that he’s lying atop something soft and damp.

That he’s sprawled across Tsukiyama’s torso.

Kaneki immediately skitters back, attempting to untangle himself from Tsukiyama, but it only causes him to flail even more as Tsukiyama tries to right himself. All the motion makes Kaneki feel like he could vomit. He should have put some of Yoshimura’s special cubes into his morning coffee...

“Are you okay?” Tsukiyama asks as he winces.

Kaneki nods, sheepish, rubbing at the side of his head. “Yeah, I think so. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tsukiyama says, “but with that, we should probably call it.”

They collect their belongings and head to the locker room in silence. Tsukiyama begins to hum again as he approaches his locker and pulls out his change of clothes and passes Kaneki a towel. Kaneki finds it a bit strange that neither of them will shower after working up such a sweat, but he decides not to question it. He surreptitiously sniffs himself—he’s thankful that he doesn’t smell all that badly.

He’s lifted his shirt half over his head before the sinking realization of what’s happening hits Kaneki. Next to him, Tsukiyama has already changed out of his shorts and into a pair of slacks, but he’s bare from the waist-up. Kaneki can’t help but look, and although he quickly averts his eyes, they inevitably slide back to the man next to him.

Kaneki had felt so star-struck when Tsukiyama had entered Anteiku. He'd looked so elegant and refined, wearing clothes that had to have been expensive and with unworldly looks to match. It had been like meeting a supermodel in person.

He can’t even compare. His own body is thin and yielding, nothing like Tsukiyama’s built one. It makes Kaneki want to bulk up more and train even harder with Touka and Yomo. Rather unfairly, too, is that there’s not a single scratch on Tsukiyama that Kaneki can see. His skin is smooth and unmarred and glows with vibrancy. Kaneki rests a hand over the scar at his hip and looks down. He’s pale—unhealthily so. He should eat more, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

There’s a light pressure on his left temple. Kaneki looks up to see Tsukiyama (now fully clothed—Kaneki must have gotten caught up in his thoughts for too long) reaching out with his right hand, gently touching the tips of his fingers to Kaneki’s face. His brows are drawn together.

“You hit yourself when you fell, didn’t you?”

He wants to crawl into a locker and shut the door, never to emerge. “Ah, yeah, I guess I did.”

“Hmm,” Tsukiyama murmurs as he traces along Kaneki’s cheek, hovering near the laces of his eyepatch. With a small note of hysteria, Kaneki fears Tsukiyama will pluck it off and see a ghoul eye underneath. “It doesn’t seem like you have a bump. Finish up here, and I’ll get us some water and meet you in the lobby.”

Tsukiyama’s gaze lingers, brushes over Kaneki’s exposed abdomen. Notices how Kaneki clutches over his side, but makes no mention of it. Kaneki is thankful.

He breathes a sigh of relief as Tsukiyama gathers his things and leaves, sliding back against a locker onto the bench below.

He really is a fool.

 

“I brought a recommendation today,” Tsukiyama begins as he reaches into his bag. “Do you know of the French gourmet, Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin?”

Kaneki perks up as their waitress returns with two steaming cups of coffee. “Oh, you mean _The Physiology of Taste_?”

“Ah, looks like you’ve already read it,” Tsukiyama says with a wink. Kaneki feels a stuttering in his chest. “The works of gourmets are of great interest to me,” Tsukiyama continues as he slides the book over. Kaneki accepts it with a tiny bow, turning it over in his hands. It’s leather and canvas-bound, smooth pages and bold print. A rare edition.

“I can’t imagine what all those flavors he describes must be like...just thinking about the possibilities is exciting. His saying, ‘A dessert without cheese is like a beautiful woman with only one eye,’ also gives me pause. For us...what is the cheese?” Tsukiyama’s eyes are so bright, his hands moving with expression. It makes Kaneki feel a little sad—and oddly guilty—that he’s experienced what Tsukiyama has not and will never be able to. That he took his human tastes for granted.

“By the way,” Tsukiyama says, tearing Kaneki from his thoughts, “what do you like to eat, Kaneki-kun?”

Kaneki feels a sinking pit in his stomach. Just thinking about food and what it means for him now reminds him of how infrequently he feeds. How hungry he is, and disgusted with himself he is because of it. “Oh, um. Actually, I never really thought about it. I’m not so good with food…”

“What’s that?” Tsukiyama breathes, disbelieving. He cradles his jaw in his palm. “Well...I guess those types exist, too.”

He’s stirring a cube into his coffee when Tsukiyama catches him. “Hm…? What might that be?”

“Oh,” Kaneki can feel his cheeks grow hot, “Yoshimura-san made these for me,” he says, holding up a brown cube, “It helps to stave off my appetite, but there’s a limit to it. But for me, this seems to be enough for now…”

Tsukiyama mutters something, but it’s so quiet that Kaneki can’t register the words. He smiles and leans in, pointing at the book. “Ah, nevermind. What were your thoughts after you read the book?”

It must not have been important. Kaneki pages through the book, glancing over the paragraphs. “Learning about the circumstances of that era was interesting. The pursuit of extreme foods is something else…”

“Yes, there’s a passage I particularly liked. Do you mind?” Tsukiyama asks, extending his hand. Kaneki passes the book back to the other man, but when their hands retract, the pad of Kaneki’s finger burns, a droplet of red blossoming from a small slit. How did he get cut…?

“Are you okay?!” Tsukiyama cries as Kaneki winces.

“Yeah, I just got cut somehow…”

Tsukiyama frets, digging into his bag and retrieving a plain white handkerchief. “I’m so sorry,” he says as he drapes it over Kaneki’s hand.

“Ah, it’ll get dirty this way…” Kaneki protests, but Tsukiyama clasps his hands over Kaneki’s and presses the fabric against the wound.

“Don’t worry about it. Just keep it like that until the bleeding stops.”

It’s such a kind gesture. Kaneki could have done with a napkin. He absently strokes the fabric: it’s soft and tightly woven, certainly nicer than anything he's ever owned.

They fall back into easy conversation. When Kaneki inquires about Rize, Tsukiyama’s response is a bit heated for someone who was supposedly a friend, but Kaneki decides it’s not his space to judge whatever their relationship might have been. He’d only known Rize for the duration of one short date: the Rize he’d constructed in his mind over longing observation.

Who Rize actually was...and why someone wanted to kill her… Kaneki wants to know.

_“We’ll make a trade.”_

“Has your bleeding stopped? I’ll go wash the handkerchief if it has.”

Kaneki gingerly peels the fabric off his finger—it’s already healed. “Yes. Thank you so much,” Kaneki replies as he carefully folds the fabric back into a square and returns it to Tsukiyama.

Sitting back in his chair, Kaneki scans the cafe. It’s quaint and relaxing, just as Tsukiyama had described it. Several bookshelves line the walls, filled with old tomes that exude a fragrance of aged paper. Large coffee bins full of beans are stacked behind the bar, bursting with freshness.

It’s quite lovely. Romantic, even. It’s no wonder Takatsuki-sensei would choose this kind of atmosphere to work in. It’s a shame they didn’t get to catch a glimpse of her, but there will be other times.

Yes, Kaneki wouldn’t mind coming back and doing this again—perhaps this could be something new. Although he’s still getting to know Tsukiyama, Kaneki has enjoyed his time with him. He’s intelligent and opinionated, charming and passionate. Something about him draws Kaneki in. This could be something good. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to make some friends outside of Anteiku.

Especially after the trauma of Rize… Kaneki stares out the window, watching pedestrians pass by. He’d done this same thing once. Before. It’d ended disastrously, but… Perhaps Touka-chan and Itori-san had been wrong about Tsukiyama.

_“There’s some information I want.”_

A ball of anxiety creeps at the back of Kaneki’s throat. He doesn’t know what to do: Tsukiyama at times appears genuine, and _Kaneki’s_ the one with an ulterior motive. What if he messes everything up? What if there are no answers to be found, and he loses whatever this could be as the price?

They end up closing up the shop. It’s already dark outside by the time they leave, still chattering about their favorite authors. Kaneki can’t wait to return home and pore over his shelves, looking for a book to share for the next time they meet.

“Thanks. I had fun today,” Tsukiyama tells him as they walk toward the train station.

Kaneki feels a rush of warmth at the words, blocking out the cold autumn air. His grip on his bag strap tightens. “No, I should be the one thanking you,” he whispers.

“But, aren’t you hungry? After everything today, I’d imagine your stomach is quite empty.”

This is it. Now’s his chance. Kaneki doesn’t know if he should take it, but he desperately wants answers.

_“Kane-ken, you’ve been followed around by Gourmet-kun recently, right? Search around for information about the ‘Ghoul Restaurant’ from the Gourmet.”_

He smiles and looks up at the man walking beside him. There’s an aching in his chest. He swallows. “Tsukiyama-san, what do you usually do for food?”

_“Since you seem to be Tsukiyama-kun’s pet…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh so late;;; Lol to Kaneki, I'm sorry, and you're welcome.


	4. the colour of distant love

A table set for three. An unattended teppan, radiating heat. A door locked from the outside.

Something isn’t right. Kaneki looks around, feeling panic begin to creep into his lungs. The two others—Kobachi, Mitari—seem unfazed. Where are the other guests? Where are the people these two came with? Kaneki is quite certain they’re both human, but this is a restaurant for ghouls… Which can only mean...

His body feels strange, but Kaneki can’t tell why. Maybe it’s just nerves going into overdrive. But why had they been they left alone—why had he been left alone, kept with the humans?

Where is Tsukiyama?

Kaneki thinks back to the Tsukiyama’s departing words: _“Now then, let’s have some fun.”_

What “fun” had he been talking about?

He takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. Everything is going to be fine. He’s overthinking things. The air smells stale. It’s hard to breathe. He wishes he had a watch.

What had he gotten himself into? These humans are surely intended for consumption.

There’s a loud, groaning creak, and then the quiet is ripped away, the room flooding with raucous chatter. The ceiling parts to a sea of masks and eyes. Kaneki finally understands.

“‘Tonight’s dinner’ is these three people!” comes the announcement, to exuberant applause.

And they are the show.

Kaneki’s hearing blanks out—there’s a tinny ringing in his ears. He stands frozen in place, scanning the faces above him for anyone familiar. Anyone who could save him. They all look the same.

What had Tsukiyama’s mask looked like again? Kaneki had only seen a glimpse of it before they had been separated. Surely, this is a mistake. He is a ghoul, unsuitable for eating. Tsukiyama had mentioned meeting again. Weren’t they becoming friends?

Over the loudspeaker, he’s been reduced to a “strange meat.”

The one he’s searching for steps out of the crowds, approaching the railing. They call him “MM,” and Kaneki wants to laugh at how absurdly obvious the initials are, if you know the ghoul behind the mask…

It’s...utter arrogance.

Tsukiyama produces something from his pocket, introducing Kaneki as some sort of delicacy as he passes the item around. It takes a moment for Kaneki to register that it’s the handkerchief from before, still stained with his blood.

“Although he has a ghoul body, it gives off a pronounced human scent, _non_?”

Tsukiyama had left to clean that, back at the cafe. This had all been planned.

Kaneki’s stomach bottoms out. The ball of anxiety that he’s been swallowing since he’d asked Tsukiyama about his eating habits is finally too much to hold. It spreads throughout his body, icing his skin until he’s almost trembling, a burning sensation igniting behind his eyes. He feels sick.

What cuts even more than the betrayal is how he’d been so stupid, yet again. Played twice by a pretty face. He hadn’t learned from Rize, and now he’d die by Tsukiyama. Kaneki only has himself to blame.

Is his scent all Tsukiyama had been interested in? He’d claimed it had been the reason they’d played squash together, why they had drunk so much coffee at the cafe. All to tenderize, circulate the blood, enhance the aroma of his flesh.

Had it been, Kaneki wonders with a sinking heart, the only reason for Tsukiyama’s concern over his head injury? Had he only been worried that Kaneki had somehow damaged his intended meal?

Why Tsukiyama had visited him at Kamii, enticing him with sweet words.

Just how much of it had been true, if any? Had it all been a lie? Why does this keep happening to him?

Kaneki’s mind zigzags through possibilities and conjecture, a continuous beratement of his common sense playing like a soundtrack in his brain. He looks around. They are trapped. He deserves this.

His life is a tragedy. There is no happy ending in store for him.

“Now then, shall we enjoy the ultimate gourmet meal!” a familiar voice sings.

Tsukiyama is very serious when it comes to his gourmet pursuits. There will be no one to rescue him from this fate.

The humans are dead. The scrapper killed them. The scrapper will kill him, too.

Above, the crowd jeers, bloodthirsty. Hungry. Kaneki darts around, willing his body to obey through the fear. He can hear Tsukiyama shouting something from the balcony, but he keeps his concentration focused on the threat in front of him. Sidestepping dark pools of blood. Trying to keep his lungs working through the stench of half-cooked meat and stagnant air. Each downward swing of the quinque could mean certain death.

He’s been hit. It doesn’t make sense, though—Kaneki knows he’d put enough force into his body to dodge-

Kaneki’s mind detaches. His body is being sliced open, and he’s helpless to stop it. So that had been the reason for the windowless hallway, why the pre-dinner coffee had smelled strangely. They were being poisoned.

He’s losing too much blood. His vision swims in and out of darkness, like he’s drowning. He’s at his limit; at this rate, his eye would turn, exposing him—he doesn’t have his eyepatch to hide it-

The scrapper is coming for him. His legs refuse to work. Kaneki’s short eighteen-year existence ends here.

He looks up but doesn’t have the will to plead.

Mother…

It’s raining. The droplets are warm, a grotesque shade.

“Excuse me, everyone. I have caused quite a disturbance.”

Tsukiyama emerges from the scrapper’s ruptured body, a morbid birth. He’s covered in crimson, blood and gore splattered across his face: the image of a war god. A modern-day Shiva adorned by a garland of entrails and crowned by a crescent moon. He is utterly terrifying.

Still so beautiful.

His smile is ethereal and deceivingly gentle. This is Kaneki’s judgment. Death approaches.

“Kaneki-kun, shall we get out of here for the time being?”

He no longer has a voice. His body is rooted in place. His chest constricts sharply.

Tsukiyama kneels down and leans in. Opens his mouth. Kaneki can’t hear him—all that comes is a whisper that sends a chill up Kaneki’s spine.

Firm hands grasp onto him, pulling him close. Hauling him up. Kaneki closes his eyes.

He wonders if death would have been more merciful than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on track! For now lol;;;


	5. translucent cathedral

Everything hurts. He feels like he is dying. He _is_ dying. Tsukiyama drifts in and out of consciousness, waves of black clouding the vision he still has left.

There are four things he knows. He is lying in a pool of his own blood, which is slowly spreading with each passing minute. His body isn’t healing nearly fast enough to staunch the blood loss. He needs to eat. Kaneki was supposed to have been his.

His meal had been rudely disrupted, he concludes ruefully. So, five things.

Tsukiyama repeats these observations to himself on loop, a mantra of wakefulness. It is effective half of the time. His stomach turns. Nausea takes up residence within his throat. If he had anything in his stomach, he’d surely have thrown it up by now. Instead there is a gnawing emptiness and clenching, sharp tremors. He’s irrationally thankful for this, despite it being the reason for his failure—lying in his own blood _and_ vomit would have been even more disgraceful.

Fasting had been a grave error. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, were he to survive this.

Is this really the end for him: broken and bleeding in an abandoned and decrepit church, left to rot between the splinters of decimated pews? What an unsightly death it would be, completely unfit for someone of his ilk. All this, just for a piece of food.

Delectable, top-quality food. Tsukiyama thinks he wouldn’t have minded dying for it, had he _actually_ been able to consume Kaneki. What a fine last supper he would have made. The pinnacle of his gourmet existence.

He needs to eat.

He still wants to eat Kaneki. A small lick of his blood wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. Tsukiyama wants to devour Kaneki—skin, bones, marrow, organs, flesh—until there’s nothing left of him except the lifeforce spreading throughout his own body. They would become one, and Kaneki would live on through him. With him.

It would be the ideal scenario.

 _“We are just bags of meat. The weak bow down, and the strong devour them.”_ He had said that himself, but what did it mean for him now? He is not weak. He is strong. _He_ is the one who devours. He might have been defeated, but Tsukiyama refuses to be reduced to the pathetic loser role, brought to his end over poor planning and execution. He couldn’t stand the indignity.

Tsukiyama fights for consciousness as he feels it begin to ebb, determined not to die yet feeling the life drain from him. He wonders absently how long it would take his family to find him. Who would find him. Hopefully not Kanae. Matsumae, perhaps? What would she think, finding her ward in such a pitiful state? What would Papa think?

He needs to eat, he needs to eat. He’s so hungry; his body’s a wrecked, mutilated thing; he’s gonna die here; he needs foodfood _food_...

 _Calmato_ , he reminds himself as he feels his heart accelerate. If he works himself up here and now, the blood would pump faster from him, hastening his demise.

He wants to eat Kaneki. Kaneki-kun is his. His and his alone. No one else can have him. That Kirishima bitch got a taste of him. It had been a low blow. If he dies, he’ll never get to eat Kaneki.

He needs _meat_.

There’s a distinct snapping sound by his remaining ear. He’d know it from anywhere.

“Hori...you...were here?” he rasps out. It takes deliberate effort to work his jaw.

Another click comes as a response. “Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into quite the pinch, Tsukiyama-kun.”

Tsukiyama tries to turn his head to get a better look at her. He can only see out of one eye. The other had been ripped off his face, along with his arm. He must look quite ghastly.

Hori is a human. He could eat her. It would save him...but then Tsukiyama would lose his beloved pet. It would be hard to find another.

“I need...to eat…” Every word he breathes is one step closer to his grave.

The little mouse squats down next to him and takes another photo. “Tsukiyama-kun, there are things I can do, but I can’t do _that_ for you.” She stoops over him at another angle. The camera sounds yet again. She checks the viewer and adjusts her lens.

“Always so...vulgar...Hori,” Tsukiyama chides, receiving a snort in return. “I have to...question...your taste… Sometimes.”

She laughs, short and nasal. “Then you should be questioning yourself, considering you’re my current subject.” Snap.

If he could roll his eyes, he would. “That’s...not...what I meant,” he breathes out.

Tsukiyama goes silent, processing the facts surrounding his current predicament. He will die if his body cannot heal, and he needs proper nourishment for it to heal. Hori cannot procure a body for him, and he will not eat her.

He feels his consciousness begin to recede. If he passes out now, he may lose this one opportunity to ensure his survival. He just needs to figure out _how_ to use it. _Think_.

A burning red gaze, fire erupting from her back. The same fire had pierced him and continues to scorch him, his body its kindling. She’d looked at him with such disgust.

_“Even your meat can be eaten. Fucking gourmet.”_

Even his meat could be eaten? Tsukiyama hadn’t considered that before. He never considered himself as food, but… It’s...an option. It’s not his _best_ option, but it may be his only option. It could work.

He wants to live.

“Hori,” he calls. His voice sounds so faraway. It echoes in his brain. She perks up, tilting her head in consideration. Tsukiyama breathes in as deep as he can manage, swishing the blood, phlegm, and saliva that have accumulated in his mouth. He spits. The mouse doesn’t even wince.

She’s really something else. Now isn’t the time to admire her mettle.

“Over there…” he gestures as best as he can. “Pass me my arm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This weekend put me so far behind! Working to get back on track...ha...ha...haaa.


	6. the hour of departure

> _I said it again:_ Come with me _, as if I were dying,_  
>  _and no one saw the moon that bled in my mouth_  
>  _or the blood that rose into the silence._  
>  _O Love, now we can forget the star that has such thorns!_

 

“Kaneki!” Faces he hasn’t seen in what feels like a lifetime swarm around him. Friends, recent allies, and…

His blood runs cold.

Kaneki has suffered delusions and hallucinations. Has been plagued by nightmares. But this is the first time he’s experienced a haunting.

Among the crowd is a face that should not be present—should no longer exist in this reality.

Tsukiyama Shuu had been his first kill. Kaneki hadn’t done the actual killing, but he’d been an accomplice to the murder. Still equally culpable. The guilt that had racked his conscience forms into a hard, brittle ball in his chest. It cracks and dissolves, leaves an unpleasant aftertaste at the back of his mouth. Pushes past the lingering flavor of his torturer’s flesh.

A cold blast of air cuts through the clearing. Above them, a full moon hangs, brightly illuminating their surroundings. Helicopters soar overhead, disappearing into the distance. They are safe for now. Kaneki knows this safety will not last.

People are talking. Kaneki has to focus to understand what they say—the hearing in one of his ears is still impaired. He’s uncertain whether it’ll ever return to what it was, before-

“I’m not going back to Anteiku,” he catches himself saying, and all eyes turn to him. He didn’t even know he was going to say that or had even come to that conclusion. But he must have decided it, sometime during this prolonged nightmare, kept it cradled to his heart until it had been time to release it. Kaneki knows it’s the right path—the only right thing in this wrong world. To return to Anteiku would only corrupt its peaceful harbor.

Touka is crestfallen. “There are things I want to do,” Kaneki explains, “I need to prepare myself, get stronger. There are also a lot of things I want to find out. I just don’t have enough time.”

Banjou steps forward. His face is tight; he looks conflicted. “We were saved, and it was all thanks to you, Kaneki.” His eyes shift around, but when he looks up, there is certainty. “I...would like to help you, too. Whether I’m a ‘shield’ or gofer or whatever, anything is fine. If you think I could be of any assistance…”

Banjou is so kind. Far kinder than Kaneki could ever be. Kaneki fears the negative impact he’d have upon this gentle person, but he knows he is selfish. “Thank you, Banjou-san,” he says as he extends a hand, “That would be a big help. Let’s do our best together.”

Expectedly, the trio also follow. Wherever Banjou goes, so do they. The trust they have in each other is heartwarming. Kaneki wishes he could have that with someone. Perhaps, with time. But things like trust don’t exist for him now. Not since he stepped foot into that circular torture chamber and watched his fingers fall one by one into a dirty bucket. Over and over and over.

A short burst of applause sounds from the edge of the group. It grows louder as its creator approaches. It draws Kaneki’s attention, and he wonders if he’s dreaming, but the scent that hits him is familiar and real.

A ghost is kneeling before him.

“What a splendid plan!” the ghost marvels. He bows, a hand over his heart. “If _Monsieur_ Banjoi is the ‘shield,’ then I shall be the ‘sword’ who cuts down the thorns in your path. I will become your knight.”

He finds his voice. “Tsukiyama-san...you’re alive.”

A thin smile spreads across Tsukiyama’s face. His gaze almost looks affectionate. “There are still too many things I want to experience to just up and die, yet. Can’t I be useful to you, Kaneki-kun?”

The way Tsukiyama says his name makes Kaneki’s chest twist. He knows all too well that he cannot trust this man, but the memory of a charming smile and lively discussion at a windowside cafe table hover like a jeering chorus at the edge of his rationality. Kaneki has far too few good memories. He fights to keep the ones he has, even if it means editing history.

He knows this, but…

Next to him, Nishiki cries a warning.

He steps forward. They’re only centimeters apart. “Tsukiyama-san,” he begins, and the name falls so easily off his tongue, “it would certainly reassure me to have you as an ally. Please lend me a hand.” He hunches down, close to Tsukiyama’s left ear. The last time Kaneki had seen the man, Tsukiyama had been missing chunks of the other one. Kaneki wants to ensure that Tsukiyama hears this. The whole thing feels vaguely nostalgic. Kaneki pushes those memories away. “But… If you do anything unnecessary, then I will kill you,” he whispers. Tsukiyama visibly shivers. “So please, take care.”

It’s a good enough leash for now.

“Me,  too... I’ll also-”

“You’re planning on going to university, aren’t you, Touka-chan?” Kaneki interrupts, turning to the girl with a smile. It feels like a grimace. “You’ll have to study hard for the entrance exams. They’ll be coming up soon. And the shop will be short-staffed, now, so you’ll have to help out the manager where you can. I’m sorry to put this on you.” He’s rambling, but he needs to fill the silence. Demolish the bridge that connects them.

It’s better this way.

“But I’ll stop by for coffee now and then. I’d like to see more of your latte art; you’re always so good at it…”

He won’t come by. But sometimes lies are kinder than the truth. Kaneki tries to be kind.

“See you later, Touka-chan.”

Sometimes kindness is also cruel.

Her bottom lip is quivering, the corners of her eyes beginning to squint. Touka turns heel and storms off without another word, Nishio hastily chasing after her. “Don’t you go doing anything reckless!” he shouts, “And don’t you die, you shitty brat!”

Kaneki will try his best. But nothing in this world can be guaranteed. Being kind does not mean one will receive kindness in return. Giving trust does not mean it won’t be broken. He thinks of his mother, of every lost possibility. Sometimes love is not enough.

This world is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Everything in it is corrupt. And most of all, himself.


	7. the night gallops on its shadowy mare

He’s become used to the sensation of falling—it doesn’t scare him so much any longer. Banjou knows Kaneki will catch him, but that reassurance does nothing to quell the frustration he holds inside.

_“What kind of shield are you? With only that much power, what the hell can you protect?”_

Kaneki is right. Banjou knew he would be mostly useless to Kaneki, especially when it came to fighting. He’s not that skilled at martial arts. He can’t use his kagune. Although he is a ghoul—he has the kakugan and eating habits to prove this—Banjou has never seen his kagune, no matter how much he wills it to appear. He wonders if it even exists. If it does, it must be defective. All he has in his favor is his physical stature, but it only goes so far. He cannot be a shield to Kaneki all of the time. He’s not fast enough, and he’d only get in Kaneki’s way.

He’s been falling all night. “Still no good, huh?” Kaneki smiles at him, eyes full of sympathy. “Let’s stop for now.”

By now, Banjou has lost all sense of shame. It just is.

They have a visitor while Kaneki cleans up in the bathroom. This particular ghoul makes Banjou’s skin crawl, but Kaneki keeps him around, so he doesn’t argue. It’s not like Tsukiyama has tried anything to raise suspicion, and Kaneki doesn’t allow him to live in their quarters although Tsukiyama is the one footing their bills, but Banjou never feels at ease when the man is within close proximity. He knows the Gourmet is plotting something, so Banjou waits, and he listens. Watches.

Sitting on the floor at the foot of the couch, Banjou shifts his gaze between the two men as they volley information back and forth. Their tones are clinical as they rattle off data and details from the documents Tsukiyama’s informant gave them. It’s as though they hadn’t slaughtered a whole building of ghouls to get the lead.

Banjou relives the scene whenever he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift too far. How Tsukiyama had disguised himself in his own skin, a wolf among—What? Certainly not sheep—lesser animals. How he’d played master of ceremonies, setting the table for a banquet but for a different intended guest. How excited and wary murmuring gave way to screams of panic and terror as the arena ceiling had opened to a singular hooded figure with one visible eye.

“Tonight’s dinner...is everyone!” Tsukiyama had cried with barely-contained glee, and the feast had begun.

Madam A had been their primary target, but there had been a secondary goal attached to their mission that night.

Kaneki needed feeding.

Banjou’s lived his entire life as a ghoul. He’s heard the rumors of what practicing cannibalism will do. And the price one pays for breaching that taboo. But Banjou is weak. He has no say in how Kaneki decides to pursue his quest for strength.

But he’s complicit. He and the others had snuck in and posed as janitors, blocking the exits. Rounding up the offerings. It had been all according to plan.

“Tsukiyama-san, are you really okay with this?” Kaneki had asked as they had taken their positions, “They’re your friends, are they not?”

Tsukiyama’s response had been so immediate it had sounded flippant. “If I don’t make some sacrifices, then you won’t trust me, right?”

Kaneki’s conclusion had sent shivers up Banjou’s spine: “In that case, I don’t need to hold back.”

It had looked like something out of a horror film. Kaneki, bathed in black, tearing through the auditorium, leaving dismembered limbs and trails of blood in his wake. He’d killed every last one of them as Banjou and the rest had bore witness. Tsukiyama had smiled the entire time and had called Kaneki “master.”

They’d been the same as Aogiri, hadn’t they, playing with the lives of others. But…

And then there had been those two surprises, the black and white one-eyeds with the same kagune as Kaneki. As Rize.

Just what had Banjou fallen into?

They’d called Kaneki “onii-chan.”

Hina-chan calls Kaneki “onii-chan,” too. Banjou can’t help but feel guilty whenever he looks at her. She’s so young, yet she tries so hard. It’s unfair. She must be lonely, stuck in this cage all day—no different from Hetare. But Hinami is strong, perhaps the strongest of them all. She had offered up her comfort at Anteiku to abate Kaneki’s loneliness, yet another sacrifice laid upon his altar.

Kaneki is worth it. Banjou wants to help him; he owes a debt. But even more than that, Banjou believes in Kaneki.

Kaneki is kind, kinder than he realizes. Kind to the point where it hurts him. Kaneki may have changed—there are times where he is merciless and unstable, striking down his enemies with ruthless bloodlust—but deep down, he is still the gentle, selfless young man Banjou had first met.

Something about him reminds Banjou of Rize. Banjou lets those thoughts go, because Rize is no longer with them.

But Kaneki is growing a reputation. Tales of a hundred ghouls annihilated in one night by a solitary force. Their flesh devoured. And Tsukiyama had offered them up so easily.

Tsukiyama may provide the intel that allows them to move, fund them so that they can live in relative comfort, brighten their apartment with freshly-cut flowers that return Hinami’s laughter, but Banjou still doesn’t trust him. Tsukiyama is known as the Gourmet. Banjou has seen the way Tsukiyama looks at Kaneki. How Kaneki looks at Tsukiyama sometimes, when he thinks no one is paying attention.

Just what is Tsukiyama aiming at?

_“Important people, your loved ones, those whose existences you want to protect. If you’re weak, they’ll all be scattered and fall.”_

Banjou is surrounded by strong people. Kaneki grows stronger with each passing day, with each new corpse consumed. Hinami grows stronger with each passing day she spends in the company of only herself.

Tsukiyama is strong. He is Kaneki’s sword.

Banjou looks at Kaneki and sees the sadness he carries. The burdens he’s placed upon his small shoulders, enough to weigh him down. But a tiny light still kindles within him, its flame still reaching his eyes. Banjou wants to protect that.

He may not be much of an effective shield, but perhaps just by being here, by staying by Kaneki’s side, Banjou could protect Kaneki from himself.


	8. the house of flowers

Tsukiyama pauses before the painted metal door, one hand raised and ready to strike. His other arm cradles a bouquet of freshly-cut flowers, wrapped in newspaper from a stall he’d passed along the way. He takes a deep breath, brushes his bangs out of his face, and adjusts his tie. Inside his right pants pocket is a key that he dares not to use.

Three rapid knocks later, heavy footsteps approach, and the door opens. “Oh, it’s you,” Banjou practically scoffs from behind the door. He steps back and pulls the door open wider with a note of reluctance. Tsukiyama can smell the distrust reeking from the older man: it’s a high, astringent scent that burns the inside of his nose.

“ _Merci_ ,” Tsukiyama says, smiling, as he strolls inside the condo, taking his shoes off in the entrance and stepping into a pair of house slippers—the only thing belonging to him that is kept within these walls.

It’s as drab as ever inside. When he had first leased the place, Tsukiyama had offered to add some decorations, but Kaneki had politely declined past basic furniture. But the decision resulted in it looking as though they hadn’t truly moved in. There’s nothing personal about the space, which Tsukiyama supposes gives Kaneki a measure of peace of mind, but it also steals any warmth the place could have. There’s a standard living room set with a television and a full kitchen with refrigerator. Tsukiyama had insisted upon buying a nicer-than-average coffee maker, to which Kaneki had relented. But all the cutlery and dishware is plain, stocked with only essentials.

The walls are bare and painted a sterile white. The windows are regularly kept shut, blinds drawn, the occupants not wanting to attract attention. Tsukiyama doesn’t understand how they can live like this. It’s like a den of depression.

The bedrooms aren’t any better. They each have a single western-style bed (bunk beds for the trio), a nightstand, a small desk with a lamp, and a modest bookshelf. The sheets are all solid colors—Tsukiyama had brought over a variety of sets, and everyone picked from the pile. But other than the books and magazines lying around, there’s nothing identifiable about their living space.

Theirs, not Tsukiyama’s.

There is an extra room in the condo. Tsukiyama had intended it for himself, but it’s since become makeshift storage for the few things they keep. He hadn’t even been able to raise the issue before Kaneki had preemptively killed it.

“I’m sorry, Tsukiyama-san,” Kaneki had said during move-in, a tiny crease between his brows. “I’d rest easier if you weren’t here with us.” He’d looked away, scratching at his chin. “I appreciate what you’re doing for us, but… You tried to eat me once,” Kaneki had said, a sardonic ghost of a smile on his face.

Yes, he had. Tsukiyama still wants to. Every moment spent in Kaneki’s presence is a test of his patience and self-control.

Tsukiyama could try at any moment. Kaneki, though strong and undoubtedly a quick learner, is still inexperienced as a ghoul. Conversely, Tsukiyama has been hunting ever since his father had taught him how to use his kagune. He’s sure he could overpower Kaneki whenever he wanted to, despite Kaneki’s...unpredictability. He’s arguably the strongest person in their little ragtag group—no one would be able to stop him. But instead, Tsukiyama waits. Allows Kaneki’s flavor to simmer and concentrate, careful to keep it from boiling over.

But not being able to live together with the others has thrown a proverbial wrench in Tsukiyama’s plans. With limited contact, he’s unable to forge the trust he needs to fit properly in with the group—and most importantly, with Kaneki. He tries to make the most of it when they are together: attending to Kaneki’s needs and requests, though they are all business in nature; putting on a pleasant face as he delivers their food stock (pre-butchered, because while Kaneki doesn’t partake, Tsukiyama had seen the way the color had drained from his face when he’d brought over a whole torso); staying as long as he can while engaging in polite conversation. Slowly normalizing his presence.

Although it had taken some time, it appears as though Kaneki has warmed to their place. A fortnight ago, after a long and fruitless mission, Kaneki had said, “Let’s go home.” It had been the first time he’d called it such.

It had stopped the breath in Tsukiyama’s lungs. Did “home” include him? Although all of the paperwork is in Tsukiyama’s name, although he possesses the master key to the front door, Tsukiyama knows that he’s not truly part of Kaneki’s makeshift family. But Kaneki had called it so, right in front of Tsukiyama.

It makes him wonder what Kaneki really thinks about him. It’s been half a year since they banded together; Tsukiyama has been careful not to slip up. For all appearances, he has been domesticated. Kaneki calls upon him with more regularity now, and Tsukiyama has found himself on more than one occasion staring at his phone, willing it to ring.

This practice has become routine. Walking over to the kitchen, Tsukiyama lays the bouquet upon the counter and pulls out a pair of shears and a tall glass vase. Hinami, upon seeing Tsukiyama’s movements, perks up from her spot on the couch and rises to huddle by his side.

“Flower Man”—and the name she calls him is simply _enchanteur_ —“what did you bring today?”

This may not be his home, but the way Hinami treats him makes Tsukiyama _feel_ at home. Tsukiyama brings flowers for aesthetic reasons: to instill color and some life into the barren condo, an attempt to uplift the mood of what can easily become a very heavy place. But he also enjoys the way his little lady appreciates them, how she asks questions about what kind they are and what the flowers mean, how to write their names in kanji, how she sticks her nose close to their petals and breathes in with delight. The smile she presents him afterward. She’s the only one who ever really talks to him, not because she has to, but because she wants to.

It’s strange, Tsukiyama ponders as he clips long stems underneath running water, passing each to Hinami to place in the vase. Being around his _petite fleur_ sometimes gives Tsukiyama the same feeling he has when he’s with Kaneki.

It’s as if he’s in bloom.


	9. in my sky at twilight you are like a cloud

Kaneki is taking too long. Tsukiyama stares at his cell phone as the seconds tick by, growing into minutes. It’s been almost an hour; his legs are starting to fall numb, and he’s surprised none of the others have left their stations to come scope out the situation. But they all are bound by Kaneki’s words. He is their leader, and they will follow him into the pits of hell if he so desires.

“Wait for me,” he’d told Tsukiyama after they had secured the targets. Tsukiyama had attempted to hide his confusion, albeit without much success. This had been new. Usually, Tsukiyama—being the only other of their group able to use his kagune—would support Kaneki directly as they pursued their targets while the other four stood guard. But once his assistance was no longer needed, Tsukiyama would be dismissed and would leave to join with the others until Kaneki returned. Tonight, though, breaks protocol.

Tsukiyama had nodded, wordless. Kaneki had looked at him with such clear eyes that Tsukiyama had been too stunned to question him. Wait for him? It went without saying. Tsukiyama always waits, even though nothing happens or changes when he does. He’s been waiting for half a year—no, longer than that. But it’s an order.

A hidden desire.

The interrogation shouldn’t be taking so long, and the screams have long since stopped. Tsukiyama stares at the clock on his phone for another moment before he tucks it back into the inner pocket of his jacket. He’s the only one on point—the others are keeping watch outside of the building, monitoring for Doves. Or Aogiri Tree.

The silence is unnerving. It would be a direct violation of orders, but Tsukiyama’s body is moving independent of his mind. If something had happened to Kaneki—especially on his watch—he would never forgive himself. Tsukiyama would never allow anyone else to steal his prey.

Turning around, a multitude of pinpricks assaulting his stiff muscles, Tsukiyama pushes the door open. It’s dark inside, lit only by a faintly buzzing fluorescent floor lamp that’s seen better days. The room is not how he had left it.

Kaneki kneels in the middle of the mostly-empty room, his back to Tsukiyama, staring up at the ceiling as in a daze. Four crimson tentacles unfurl from his back, swaying and twitching like a cat’s tail. Two corpses lie in pieces around him, their guts torn, intestines spilling out in gruesome arcs. The splintered remains of two wooden chairs litter the scene.

But Tsukiyama isn’t interested in the carnage unfolded before him. In this room that stinks of filth and decay, Kaneki is all he can see.

Walking forward without trepidation, Tsukiyama removes his mask. There is no need for it here.

He keeps a distance as he circles Kaneki, assessing the other’s state of being. Kaneki is covered in blood: it soaks his front, coats his hands and collects underneath his short fingernails, drips down his half-open mouth. Tiny flecks splatter across his face like constellations. He’s clutching a half-eaten liver, his fingers flexing around and into it, and his single kakugan is vivid, both irises thin circles around blown pupils.

Chuckling, Tsukiyama closes in and crouches before Kaneki. The kagune turn, regarding him with interest, but do not move beyond that. He slowly reaches out and runs a thumb across Kaneki’s bottom lip, gathering blood and gore, then swipes it against his tongue. Tasting what Kaneki had tasted. It’s foul, save for the vague sweetness of Kaneki’s own flavor.

Tsukiyama is surprised there’s no immediate repercussion for his invasion—that he hasn’t been skewered yet and turned into the third victim of the night. But the action appears to have woken Kaneki back to his senses.

“Tsukiyama...san…?” he says, his voice low and detached. Kaneki’s eyes contract; he looks down to the organ still clutched in his hands. He pitches forward and retches, but nothing comes up. Heaving, Kaneki rolls back onto his heels and wipes his face with the back of his hand, but it only smears the blood around more. “How long have you been here?”

“Only a few minutes,” Tsukiyama begins, “I was beginning to get worried. You don’t normally take so long.” He keeps his tone light, nonjudgmental. Merely stating the facts.

The kagune whip around, tips pulled into points, poised to strike. Kaneki’s eyes darken. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know,” Tsukiyama says. He remains still. “But I have pledged to be your sword,” he continues, placing a hand over his heart, “and I will dull with disuse. Allow me to serve you.” He slides his hand up and removes the handkerchief from his breast pocket.

It draws Kaneki’s attention. He stares at it for several moments before he closes his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs. _Dolce_.

Tsukiyama leans in, brushing back Kaneki’s stained bangs with one hand and wiping the gore off his face with the other. He moves in gentle downward strokes, careful not to tug too roughly at Kaneki’s skin. Some of the blood has already dried.

“I take it that you got what you wanted out of those two.”

Kaneki makes a small noise in his throat, but he says nothing in reply. His eyes are still shut. Tsukiyama wants to bite into that neck, taste the mingling of blood—the vulgar mixing with the sacred. All sacrifices for Tsukiyama’s palet.

 _Calmato_. It is not the time; his meal is not yet ready. To indulge now would spoil everything he’s worked for.

He runs his thumb over the network of veins of Kaneki’s kakugan. It’s calmed—no longer such an angry red against his pale skin, but still active. He pulls back as Kaneki’s eyes flutter open. He’s still drenched in blood, but it will have to do for now. Luckily, the night had been dark and overcast, so if they move quickly, they shouldn’t be seen. Most of the blood has seeped into Kaneki’s battlesuit, so dark it’s nearly indistinguishable.

Tsukiyama will have to launder it when they return home.


	10. your pride and my pride

It’s become a regular occurrence; the others know to leave them alone.

The basement is always hot and filled with a certain heaviness: there are no windows, the entry door locks from the inside, and the room itself is one long, empty expanse. The paneled walls look like prison bars. No sounds escape from within it.

“Tsukiyama-san, how about training with me for a while?” Kaneki had offered a few weeks back, a clarity in his eyes that Tsukiyama hadn’t seen since the other had escaped from Aogiri Tree’s holdout. At Tsukiyama’s obvious surprise, Kaneki had said, “I need your sword.”

The words had burned a hole in Tsukiyama’s stomach, acid rising up to bite at the back of his throat. They had been what Tsukiyama had been waiting for. He’d felt a tense swelling of emotion at being needed, at Kaneki’s fledgling show of trust. At the opportunity to get close.

It had been the first time Kaneki had told Tsukiyama that he needed him. There is no doubt that the group relies significantly on Tsukiyama, but the necessity of his presence had only emerged during missions. He is not physically needed to pay the bills or to provide Kaneki with the leads his little mouse supplies: they are things Tsukiyama can do remotely, electronically. Kaneki usually prefers it that way. Even during missions, Tsukiyama is kept at a distance and sometimes gets left behind.

Kaneki had been testing him. This, too, is another test.

Letting his kakugan emerge as he had shrugged off his sweater, Tsukiyama had told a truth: “I’m sorry, but...I’m not confident I can treat you gently, Kaneki-kun.” His kagune had curled with barely-restrained excitement.

“That’s not necessary,” Kaneki had replied pointedly, the popping of a joint accenting his assessment, “If you don’t give it your all, then there’s no point.”

_“If you do anything unnecessary, then I will kill you.”_

This could kill him. Kaneki means all his words. Tsukiyama follows him, anyway.

He’s lost track of how many times they’ve had to make repairs to the room—this, too, has become a regular occurrence. Tsukiyama tries not to impart too much damage, but he often cannot help it. Kaneki is relentless. Only after he’s been thoroughly tired out does Kaneki’s focus shift back to reality, eyes wide at the wreckage: shattered tiles, busted overhead lights crackling with electricity, deep gouges in the floors and walls. They both have become accustomed to apologizing.

Banjou and the gasmasked trio never seem to mind. They shrug off the pair’s apologies and get to work, simply happy to be useful in a concrete way. They are good with their hands and even better at cooperation. Those are the only times Hinami is allowed in the basement.

Piles of books grow around the perimeter of the room, looking like a small cityscape of paper. They are separated by category: self-defense, martial arts, strength training, yoga. Kaneki has read them all, several times over. Tsukiyama has developed a habit of delivering new ones with each visit. The stacks rise and multiply into miniature skyscrapers, yet they never get in the way of training.

Just as the room changes, so has Kaneki’s body. It’s now lean and muscular, a far cry from the build he’d had when he’d been innocent and black-haired. Tsukiyama had believed Kaneki to be delectable even then, but hardship and determination have added a scintillating aging and spice to his prey. Knowing utter defeat at the hands of a formidable foe like Shachi, the failure of securing Nurse Taguchi...they had been huge losses for their side, but rather than discourage, they had only revitalized Kaneki’s conviction.

Witnessing Kaneki’s evolution is akin to putting a dish into the oven and waiting, or casking crushed grapes until they ferment and become wine. Tsukiyama is eager to experience the end result.

The room swarms with the scent of sweat and aggression. Tsukiyama is hungry. He is being tested. In the half-year since pledging himself to Kaneki’s cause, his appetite has shifted and narrowed. Tsukiyama now eats to keep his strength up and little more. He doesn’t have time for pickiness or theatrics—not like anything would ever compare anymore. That singular taste of Kaneki lurks in his memory like fruit just out of reach. With each passing day, it ripens; Tsukiyama tends to it so that it does not prematurely rot. One day, he will reap his reward.

He unravels his kagune, letting it stretch as he forms it into a piercing spike. Contracts it into a drill that demolishes the space where Kaneki’s foot had just been. Tsukiyama lunges forward, thrusts his kagune upward with effort, sweeps low as his opponent backs away. Kaneki is fast—by Rc type alone, Kaneki should naturally best him. But just as Kaneki trains now, Tsukiyama has trained his whole life. He hadn’t suffered repeated impalement from his father and Matsumae for nothing. He still remembers how it’d felt to bleed out, his small body working to restitch itself time after time as his family had looked on, detached and impervious.

Tsukiyama is agile for a koukaku. They had made sure of it.

His sword has been honed with precision.

Kaneki may be his master, but these are the times for Tsukiyama to prove himself, to demonstrate what he’s capable of. He is a weapon, deadly and without mercy. He will not go down easily.

Tsukiyama feels his body responding as they waltz around each other, ricocheting and striking, but it’s a deeper hunger than he’s known. Kaneki, white-haired and dangerous, one eye luminous, is beautiful. He commands, even when he doesn’t speak. Tsukiyama wants to submit.

He has never felt this way before.

It feels like there is an immense gravity pressing down upon him, drawing him in. It’s like how he’s heard scientists describe matter at the edge of an event horizon, slowly revolving, accelerating, and deforming. Tsukiyama knows that if he is not careful, he will surely be ripped apart.


	11. ancient buried sorrows

He’s finding it hard to keep air in his lungs. Kaneki slouches against the basement wall, breathing fast but feeling little relief. His heart hammers against his chest, and all of his muscles scream from overexertion. As usual, he and Tsukiyama have torn the room apart during one of their sparring sessions, which means another round of repairs will be in order before they can use it again. Kaneki wonders if Banjou and the rest will ever tire of cleaning up his messes.

Beside him, Tsukiyama isn’t much better off. The top few buttons of his shirt have popped open, and he’s bent forward, holding his head in his hands. It seems he’s still reeling from the blow to the head Kaneki had given him that had ended their session; Tsukiyama, to his credit, had landed a deep hit to his gut. Hence the breathing problems. Kaneki is quite certain one of his lungs has been punctured.

They sit next to each other, unspeaking, their bodies mending. Sweat clings uncomfortably to Kaneki’s skin—the smell of salt fills his nostrils. It’s like he’s at the beach, but instead of the ocean, his own fluid fills his body. The pain is agonizing, but it’s slowly receding, and so Kaneki grinds his teeth and focuses on redirecting his breathing through his nose.

He’s not sure how much time has passed, but the sharp stabbing in his chest has become a dull ache, and his heartbeat has slowed to a rhythm more normal. Tsukiyama is very still, but Kaneki can hear the small hitches in the other’s breath, so he knows that Tsukiyama hasn’t passed out. He leans over in the opposite direction with effort, his hand grasping at air until the tips of his fingers make contact with the edges of his goals and tips them over. The water bottles tumble over and roll towards him—they feel much more heavy than they have any right to be.

Kaneki cracks open the cap to one and passes it over, setting it on the ground between him and Tsukiyama. He opens the other and chugs it down, the rush of cool liquid filling his throat and stomach briefly making him feel sick, then spills the remainder of the container over his head. Their training sessions have become regular—practically scheduled events at this point—so Hinami has taken to leaving water bottles out for them in the basement, tucked between the stacks of books and manuals.

“You’ve...improved quite a bit,” Tsukiyama finally says, his fingers blindly reaching for the bottle and nearly upending it. Kaneki steadies the bottle on reflex, his hand quickly retreating once he’s certain the bottle won’t spill.

“It’s still not enough,” he replies, drawing his knees up and resting his elbows upon them, “I need to become stronger.”

Tsukiyama doesn’t respond. His head is still tipped forward, eyes clenched shut. He shakily brings the bottle to his lips and drinks, thin streams of water leaking and creating dark spots on the front of his shirt. He’s still rather pale, and a few veins are raised along his right temple. Tsukiyama leans back carefully, resting the back of his head against the wall. When he opens his eyes (still clouded with black) and turns toward Kaneki, he offers a weak smile.

There’s a lock of hair sticking up at the side of his head. It looks absurdly silly, like a feather out of place. Kaneki reaches over and smoothes it with his fingers, tucking it back behind Tsukiyama’s ear.

The black fades from Tsukiyama’s eyes, his face a white sheet. Kaneki feels like the wind’s been knocked from him yet again.

Why did he do that? It was something automatic, something Kaneki had given no thought.

He’s sitting on the side of Tsukiyama’s kakuhou. His kagune could strike at any moment.

He snaps his arm back and clutches it against him, pinning it as though afraid it has a mind of its own. “Ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” He can feel the heat flash in his cheeks. “Your hair—it was-” he tries to mime it with his hands, but Kaneki knows he’s only adding to the confusion. He takes a deep breath. Holds it. Exhales. “...My mother used to do that for me,” he whispers, defeated.

Tsukiyama’s right hand connects to the place where Kaneki had touched, fingers combing through his hair. His eyes are still very wide. “I don’t. Remember,” he murmurs, “My mother, that is.” The words sound like they slipped out, despite Tsukiyama’s wishes. His hand drops. Knees press against his chest. Arms encircle legs, chin props atop knees. Tsukiyama stares across the room, away from Kaneki. “She died when I was young,” he says after a moment of silence. “I’ve only really seen her through the few pictures at home. I’m told I look a lot like her.”

She must have been something else, Kaneki imagines. His own mother had been pretty in a conventional way, even with the deep lines underneath her eyes. Her smile had been the prettiest thing about her. “I don’t remember my father. He died before I could know him. I only had my mother, until she…” Even now, so many years later, it’s still hard to talk about.

Tsukiyama seems to understand. He moves, rebalancing his weight. Quiet.

“I had his books, though,” Kaneki continues. He doesn’t know why. But they’ve already started, so… “I read every single one of them, even when I didn’t understand what they said.” He laughs a little. It tastes bitter. “It was better than nothing, I guess.”

Reaching one hand down, Tsukiyama finds the book closest to him and grasps at its corner, flicking the pages between his fingertips. It’s a paperback textbook on human kinesiology. He flips its cover open before his hand returns to around his legs. “My father...tries to show his love for me in his own way, but… We were...distant.” He angles his head so that he faces Kaneki. There’s something in his eyes: Kaneki isn’t sure if it’s a softness or a dullness.

“I spent most of my childhood in the library on the estate. I read up on whatever Papa had been involved with at work at the time, just so that we could have something to talk about whenever he _was_ home.” If Kaneki leans forward just a bit, he might could see a ghost of a smile on Tsukiyama’s lips. “I guess if I had to pick someone whom I could say raised me, it would probably be Matsumae. She’s...kind of like an aunt, or maybe even an older sister.”

Kaneki has heard that name before. It comes up sometimes when Tsukiyama takes a call. He wonders what kind of person this Matsumae is. A prominent female figure in Tsukiyama’s life. Kaneki’s own aunt had been-

No. He refuses to relive that. He got away. It’s in the past.

Tsukiyama must have noticed the shift. He stretches his legs out in front of him, hands resting on the top of his thighs. He rolls his head back and stares up at the ceiling. His neck is slender and long, collarbones prominent.

“It’s strange, isn’t it...how the important people are the ones who tend to leave us first. It makes me wonder why that is. Why we have to go on without them.”

Whatever Kaneki had been thinking to say dies on his tongue. Words pile up and shrivel in his mind. He stares at Tsukiyama openly, unable to fathom what kind of face he must be making. If he has any expression at all.

Kaneki has often wondered the same thing. Why the world is so unfair, why it’s so _wrong_. It’s why he wants to protect everyone, why he’s trying so hard.

He swallows. His eyes burn. Tsukiyama stares back at him.

“Is it really losing them if you never really had them in the first place?”

“The loss still feels real, doesn’t it?” Tsukiyama softly replies.

There’s a change in the room. The difference is palpable—it’s always felt cold and somewhat sterile, but now there’s a faint warmth, like sitting around a hearth during winter. Like recalling a nostalgic memory.

Kaneki still cannot trust Tsukiyama completely. The rift is still too great, and not enough time has passed to fill it. Kaneki does not know how much time it will take. If it’s even possible. But in this moment, with Tsukiyama’s gaze—unflinching, absent of questions—upon him, Kaneki feels a little less alone.


	12. deep and secret to me

His legs are beginning to go numb. Tsukiyama uncrosses and recrosses them at the knee, shifting on the couch to better distribute his weight. He and Kaneki have been poring over photographs for hours, hundreds scattered across the coffee table between them, trying to glean clues from their contents. Backgrounds, quality of light to assess time of day, signs…everything is important. What they don’t catch costs them time—even weeks could be wasted the longer they take to piece together the puzzle of Doctor Kanou. But it’s late, and everyone else has already gone to their rooms to sleep, and Tsukiyama’s eyes are beginning to tire.

A late-night talk show plays on the television in the background, the audience laughter discordant against the severity to which Kaneki stares at each image. It’s almost as though the audience is laughing _at_ them and their sad state of affairs. Tsukiyama wants to turn it off—it’s only still playing because _Monsieur_ Banjoi had been remiss in turning it off before he’d retired for the night—but at least it’s something to fill the silence.

Kaneki sighs as he brings a photo closer to his face, his eyebrows drawn together as he squints and runs a hand through his hair. The evidence that he has not been sleeping is written all over his face: the bags underneath his eyes are deep and dark like bruises, a fine line has emerged between his brows, and his jaw is taut, like he’s been grinding his teeth. Kaneki’s entire body is tense, and Tsukiyama can’t imagine he feels any better being hunched over like he currently is.

He’s probably not eating, either. Kaneki looks thinner in the cheeks, his clavicles more pronounced and fingers markedly more bony. His shirt has more room to it.

Tsukiyama wonders how nutritious ghoul meat actually is. In theory, it shouldn’t be all that different from human meat: both are primarily proteins, and similar enough in composition. But as ghouls, humans are their natural food source. Kaneki refuses to eat humans. He eats ghouls instead. Ghouls do not taste good to other ghouls; it’s a warning sign, like how certain poisons taste bitter to humans. But Kaneki is getting stronger with each ghoul he consumes, so it makes no sense.

A sharp slapping sound breaks Tsukiyama’s thoughts: Kaneki has tossed the photograph he’d been holding back onto the table and is leaning back into the couch, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. He groans before fisting his hands and rubbing his eyes, then swiftly rises from where he’s sitting. Tsukiyama tracks him as Kaneki ambles over to the kitchen and removes a glass from a cupboard.

“It’s late, Tsukiyama-san. Why don’t you go home.”

It’s not a suggestion or a request. It’s a dismissal.

It cuts at Tsukiyama’s pride. He wants to stay. He is not allowed to stay.

He will pass this test, too. Tsukiyama lifts himself off the couch, shooting pains in his legs making him feel uneasy on his feet. He ignores his discomfort and collects his jacket off the back of the seat and pulls it on. Wiggles his toes in his house slippers. Checks his cell phone. It’s nearly three in the morning. He has class in six hours.

Tsukiyama has almost reached the front entrance when Kaneki calls out to him. He hesitates—perhaps he is just so tired that he’d started to hear things—but when Tsukiyama turns around, Kaneki is staring at him, silent, from the back of the kitchen. There’s a water glass next to him on the counter. He says nothing; merely lifts a finger and beckons.

It’s dark. The overhead light is not on. Thin moonlight streams through the cracks of the window blinds. Tsukiyama stands not a meter away from Kaneki, and Kaneki continues to stare quietly up at him, like he’s searching for something. The white of his hair is almost silver from the moon’s reflection.

He’s still wearing his eyepatch. Tsukiyama doesn’t know why he insists upon wearing it even at home. Everyone knows.

“Just stand there.” Kaneki’s lips barely move. He takes one step forward, closing the space between them. Hands circle around Tsukiyama’s neck—has Kaneki finally chosen to kill him by choking the life out of him? A jeering thought at the back of Tsukiyama’s mind wonders if Kaneki’s fingers even have the strength to do it. Tsukiyama knows they do.

But then the hands move upward, tracing along Tsukiyama’s cheeks, then slide down to grasp at the curve of his shoulders. Tsukiyama does not dare to breathe. Kaneki rises up on his toes and closes his eyes.

This must be Kaneki’s first kiss. It’s evident that Kaneki is inexperienced—the kiss is chaste yet not hesitant, a pressing of lips against lips. It’s almost awkward, because that’s all it is. Tsukiyama stands in place, unmoving. He probably isn’t, he thinks remotely, all that much better off, in all honesty. Kissing has never really meant much to Tsukiyama.

Does he want this to mean anything?

Tsukiyama shoves those intrusive thoughts aside and focuses on the present. Remembers to breathe. Angles his head so that the kiss feels more natural. He can just barely feel Kaneki’s chest press against his own. Kaneki’s fingertips flex into his shoulders, their strength buffered by the thick fabric of Tsukiyama’s jacket. Kaneki smells of soap, but the scent isn’t strong enough to mask the delicate and almost floral fragrance that Kaneki naturally carries.

If he keeps very still, Tsukiyama can detect something like a remnant of Kaneki’s old self.

His own heart is surprisingly calm.

Kaneki slowly breaks them apart, his heels falling back to the floor. They stare at each other, wordless.

No one can see them.

Everyone else is asleep.

It’s very late at night.

“You can go now,” Kaneki says, just above a whisper.

Tsukiyama leaves, slipping his shoes on and shutting the door behind him softly. The lock turns moments later.

The presence on his lips stays with him until the morning.


	13. wounded by the wandering scent

There is a change taking place within Kaneki. He can feel the venom slithering underneath his skin, pumping through his heart and pulsing within his veins. It distorts him, infests his mind, threatens to swallow him up.

His body’s different. Foreign. Not just the increase in muscle, but in its very composition. There’s a strain in his shoulders, like something heavy is collecting there. Whatever it is has taken root, spreading a network of contamination across his back, down his spine and into the kakuhou that doesn’t belong to him. Kaneki knows that whatever is growing within him will eventually want to free itself from its cage. He’s scared of what he’s created. He wants to claw it out.

He’s begun to hear things.

Sometimes whatever it is that’s inside of him speaks to Kaneki. Sometimes the voice is female, light and lilting. Flirtatious. It rings like a bell like the coffee shop he used to frequent. Sometimes the voice is male, rough and rasping, panting as though on the verge of death. Often, the voice is his own. It whispers sweet nothings and creeps in through one ear and out the other, boring through his brain.

His moods vacillate wildly. Most of the time, Kaneki can control them, either by sheer force of will or by voluntary seclusion. At these times, he’ll lock himself in the basement and train alone when Tsukiyama isn’t available, or he’ll spend the entire day in bed, huddled up under the covers and counting in sets of sevens, because reading is too much of a mental strain. Sometimes he’ll don his mask and wander the back alleys of Tokyo, in search of either an outlet for his violence or simply an opportunity to attempt breaking out of his own head.

If Tsukiyama _is_ available, Kaneki gifts him with shattered bones and dislocated joints. The other strangely never complains or blames Kaneki; instead he reconnects his body and eats just enough to heal, and then they’re back at it again. Each time, Kaneki thinks Tsukiyama will have had enough and leave—never to return—but without fail, he is back the next day, either in person or through text message. He feels so badly that Kaneki has allowed Tsukiyama to keep a change of clothes in a spare shelf of his closet as a makeshift apology. It’s not near enough for amends, but perhaps it’s also their karma working itself out, in a messed-up way.

But it’s as though Tsukiyama knows that this is what Kaneki needs—that by sacrificing himself, Tsukiyama is protecting Kaneki from his own self.

Kaneki doesn’t know what to make of that.

_“I am your sword. Reforge me as you see fit.”_

It’s too much power, too much responsibility. How did he become like this? Kaneki may still harbor doubts about Tsukiyama, but the other doesn’t deserve half of what Kaneki does to him. Demands of him. What he wants from him, even if Kaneki’s not exactly sure what that is, yet.

He tries to hide it, but Kaneki knows the others can tell something is wrong with him, too. Their expressions change mid-sentence. They maintain an arm’s length of distance. Sometimes something he does makes them flinch, but Kaneki hasn’t been able to identify what that particular action is, yet. They always laugh it off, nervous smiles masking fear. But he can smell it. The emotion is so palpable that even his poor excuse for a ghoul nose can detect it. They tiptoe around him, disbursing shortly after he enters the room.

“We know you need your space,” Banjou had told him once before. The guilt that had washed over Kaneki had felt so shameful.

He knows he only has himself to blame.

How different would their lives have been if he’d never met them? He’s just fucking their lives up, _he’s_ so fucked up—he’s taking them down into hell with him.

None of them deserve this, but Kaneki can’t let them go. He needs them. He is a selfish person.

His hunger has become more pronounced. It overtakes him most days, until Kaneki drowns in it. When he finds himself at the point of no return, it’s his own blood that reels him back: he’s bitten his arms so many times that he’s thankful for his accelerated regeneration. But Kaneki does not partake of his own flesh—he breaks the skin just enough to stave off the hunger until he can properly eat, like some kind of sickly vampire.

Familiar sugar-like brown cubes have mysteriously materialized in the kitchen cupboards. Kaneki does not ask how or why, but their quantities always replenish coinciding with a visit from Tsukiyama. It makes Kaneki want to cry. Sometimes, alone in his room, clutching a mug of grainy coffee, Kaneki _does_ cry.

Only Hinami treats him close to the same as Before. She displays no fear, whether she’s bounding up to him with a pair of scissors and a fashion magazine or perching next to him with a kanji workbook and a pencil between her teeth. Sometimes she’ll look at Kaneki, and she appears so much older than what she is. It worsens his guilt.

 _She_ deserves so much better.

But this is what he wanted, right? Kaneki is becoming strong. His near-daily sparring sessions with Tsukiyama are proof of that. He’s become more efficient during missions. During feedings. Kaneki feels more sure in his body, even as it breaks apart.

 _No, not like this_.

He feels so tired. Sometimes waking is a challenge; Kaneki wants to continue sleeping. Even his nightmares are sometimes kinder than reality.

But he’s not done with his mission. He needs the truth. There are people he wants to protect.

When will it end? Will it ever end? Kaneki can pluck as many bad beans as he finds, but new threats will emerge. Their very existence as ghouls means a life constantly lived under the shadow of danger.

And there are many ways a person can die.

“Kaneki Ken” is vanishing, but who is replacing him?


	14. you housed infinite tenderness

This is not a test.

There had been a certainty in Kaneki’s eyes that frightens Tsukiyama. For the first time since they’ve begun these near-daily sparring sessions, Tsukiyama isn’t sure he’ll survive an encounter.

“No kagune this time,” Kaneki had stipulated, cracking a knuckle as he’d assumed a defensive stance in the middle of the basement floor. “I heard from Hori-san that you have some formal martial arts education, so I’d like for you to correct me.”

Tsukiyama had expected this to be easy. He’s larger. Heavier. More experienced and knowledgeable. He’s fast for his size. He has the upper hand all around.

“ _Come vuole_.”

It had begun innocently enough, Tsukiyama running through the standard repertoire of punches and kicks, which Kaneki is already adept at. Tsukiyama had only had to demonstrate how to better use the body’s center of gravity to accelerate speed while maintaining balance and accuracy. He had been the one to suggest holds. But it required getting close, becoming vulnerable, gaining access he knew Kaneki wouldn’t have been comfortable with.

Yet Kaneki had inexplicably agreed.

Kaneki, as usual, had been an excellent student. It had only taken a few practical applications before Kaneki had grasped the basics, and then it had been time to bring everything together.

Tsukiyama had attacked first. Kaneki had dodged. Counterattacked. Tsukiyama had heard Kaneki’s wrist shatter as he repelled the lunge, but Kaneki had quite literally shaken the damage off, rapidly going in for another hit. It had connected with Tsukiyama’s side, knocking the wind out of him. Kaneki had taken the opportunity and darted in close, backing into Tsukiyama’s chest and lodging his shoulder under Tsukiyama’s own, using the leverage to latch onto one of Tsukiyama’s arms and hurl him over. And then powerful legs had circled around his neck, his arm stretched excruciatingly from his shoulder.

The scent of Kaneki is so strong. It’s all Tsukiyama can focus on, despite his air supply slowly cutting off. He struggles, smacks his free hand against Kaneki’s calves and thighs, but the other doesn’t register his feeble attempts. If Tsukiyama strains, he can just see Kaneki’s face: his kakugan is livid, but Kaneki is not there.

Tsukiyama remembers blacking out. He remembers waking. He doesn’t know how much time had passed. He remembers Kaneki’s shadowed face above him, oddly worried, wearing a pinched expression. His lips feel wet. He licks them. They taste strange.

Just as Tsukiyama’s eyes focus, the air around Kaneki changes. His scent shifts. It’s no longer acrid and biting but deep and vibrant. Kaneki hauls Tsukiyama up by the front of his shirt and crushes their lips together, teeth catching, the sweet and tangy flavor of blood filling Tsukiyama’s mouth. He feels delirious, oxygen-deprived. He kisses back. Fists his hands in the back on Kaneki’s shirt.

Tsukiyama doesn’t know _what_ is happening, but he’s willing to follow.

Their first time is a blur: all limbs and tearing and thrashing, a mindless frenzy that neither had been prepared for. Tsukiyama hadn’t even fully healed yet—his shoulder painfully rolls in and out of its socket as Kaneki holds him down and fucks him. His windpipe is still sore. All he can think about as the right side of his face presses onto unforgiving tile, Kaneki pushing into him from behind, is that it isn’t how first times should be.

After, Kaneki retreats into himself and acts as though nothing had happened. He fixes the waistband of his shorts and pulls his shirt back into place. He does not look at Tsukiyama, for which Tsukiyama is glad. He must look like a terrible mess. Tsukiyama shakily rises to sit back on his heels and tucks his shirt back into his slacks before zipping them up. He’ll have to replace them: Kaneki had torn the fabric loops while trying to pull his belt off. His underwear is a lost cause.

He skips classes the next day. Hori calls, but Tsukiyama does not answer. He pulls the covers over his head and sleeps. He still finds it hard to breathe.

A week passes without word.

A text message calls him back.

 _I need you_.

There are so many ways Tsukiyama can read that. He arrives without knowing. Once they reach the basement floor, door locked behind them, Kaneki immediately pulls him aside and presses him into the wall. He holds him loose enough that Tsukiyama could break free, if he wanted. The kiss is urgent but hesitant: a question. A request.

Tsukiyama could deny him nothing.

They never make it to training.

The second time—which Tsukiyama does not hope to expect—is gentle to the point where Tsukiyama yearns for the first. This time, clothes are discarded. Tsukiyama is allowed to touch and caress, feeling the heat of Kaneki’s skin, the pounding of his heart, the taste of Kaneki’s desire whetting his appetite. Kaneki kisses him, and it’s still awkward and searching, but Tsukiyama guides him, and Kaneki is eager to learn.

Both times, Kaneki had worked off instinct, allowing his body to take over for his mind. Tsukiyama does not know what Kaneki is thinking. He wonders if _this_ will become a thing, now, too.

This is the second of firsts that Kaneki has given him. One, in the kitchen late at night. Two, here in this exact place.

This might be the second of firsts that Kaneki has taken from him.

In all of his twenty-two years, Tsukiyama has never felt this way. All of his advanced vocabulary prove worthless in constructing a description as to how he feels. He has always been confident. Certain. Expectant. The one who takes. The world had been his playground. Kaneki, a few months shy of four years his junior and within less than a year, has turned all of that on its head.

Tsukiyama has pledged himself. He takes his duties very seriously. He will not leave Kaneki’s side—not until he’s devoured him.

There is no future in what they are doing. Kaneki is still his prey, his objective, the reward for his constant service. He still hungers. This is merely an interlude.

When everything is over, he will be the one to grant Kaneki his end. Tsukiyama will relish being the last thing Kaneki sees as the light fades from his eyes. He will be the one to ferry Kaneki across to the afterlife, Kaneki’s flesh his fee.

His ultimate gourmet experience.

For now, he waits. Takes what he can; gives what he can. Kaneki needs him.

Nothing and no one else has ever made Tsukiyama feel more alive.


	15. in you the wars and the flights accumulated

“Tsukiyama-san…?” Kaneki breathes into the receiver. Tsukiyama glances at his wristwatch: it’s well after midnight. He has an exam in the morning; it’s the last of the term for the course until finals later that month. He drops his mechanical pencil onto his desk and leans back in his seat, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

Kaneki’s never called him so late at night. The voice on the other end of the line doesn’t seem panicked or tense, so there doesn’t seem to be an emergency, but it’s still a tone Tsukiyama has never heard before from its owner. “This is a surprise, Kaneki-kun. How might I be of service?”

All he hears is silence. Tsukiyama waits. He opens his eyes and stares directly into the bulb of his desk lamp, willing himself to stay awake. Maybe if he burns enough light into his eyes, they’ll remain open. Tsukiyama knows how ridiculous it sounds, but he’s been studying all day, and he still has a long night and a sizable stack of textbooks to review ahead of him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” Kaneki croaks out moments later.

As if Tsukiyama would let this go. “ _Non_ , _non_ , Kaneki-kun. _S’il vous plaît_. It’s no bother at all.” The receiver goes quiet again. Tsukiyama can hear a rustling. “I would like to know what’s on your mind.”

There’s an audible sniff.

“Perhaps...is something troubling you?”

Hesitance is something Tsukiyama hasn’t seen in Kaneki in recent months. The latter forges ahead, consequences be damned, too narrowly devoted to his cause to be deterred by anything. The Kaneki he is speaking to right now is not that Kaneki.

Tsukiyama switches his cell phone to his other ear and catches it between his shoulder, crossing his legs. “Are you still there, Kaneki-kun?”

“What...do you think about...me...Tsukiyama-san?” It’s a broken whisper. There’s a pain detectable in Kaneki’s voice that guts Tsukiyama, as though his answer could shatter or maintain whatever frail grasp that tethers Kaneki to life.

He doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t know what the right answer is. So Tsukiyama doesn’t think; he lets the words flow as they come to him, hoping they’re enough of an anchor to keep Kaneki moored against whatever storm he’s fighting.

“I think...that you’re strong. I know this. You’re determined. When you want something, nothing will make you back down. You’re efficient in that.” He hears a sharp intake of breath; he continues. “You’re also kind. I think our little lady knows this best. She trusts you completely; you’re like family to her. You are her family. She may be young, but I don’t think her judge of character is wrong.”

“Is...is that all?” Kaneki sounds so broken. Tsukiyama doesn’t know where this is coming from. The Kaneki he’d left the other day had been fine—tired and reclusive, but nothing comparatively abnormal. He wishes he were sitting next to Kaneki, to be able to soothe his worries and stroke his hair, to tell him everything is alright, even if it were a lie. He’d make it right. Stress and fear have a way of creeping into bodies and taking hold, tainting the taste of their meat. Prey that feels content and safe before the slaughter, however, maintain their sweetness.

He would be able to do this if he were allowed to stay at their home base. But Tsukiyama wonders if Kaneki would’ve bothered to reach out at all had Tsukiyama been residing under the same roof—perhaps it’s his remoteness that makes Tsukiyama an attractive option so late at night. Kaneki has the option of detaching himself: it’s not another person that he’s talking to, but electronic soundwaves. He can hang up at any time. He doesn’t have to see the other person’s face—their perception or concern. If Kaneki so chooses, this conversation could have never happened.

“Kaneki-kun,” he says, softly. “You are my master. I chose you. Everyone in that house did. So please, whatever afflicts you, allow me to shoulder that burden, so that I as your sword could cut it down.”

Short, rapid exhalations puff into his ear. They sound wet. “I’m scared of what I’m becoming,” Kaneki chokes out. “It feels so wrong, it’s like I’m losing myself, everything’s so _wrong_ , and I-” The rising hysteria has increased his pitch; if he continues, Kaneki could wake the whole house at this rate...

“You are not wrong,” Tsukiyama interjects with finality.

He’s noticed the change; there’s no way he could ignore it. But Tsukiyama knows what Kaneki is enduring. He’s heard enough stories. This is the natural way of things. None of this information would be a comfort.

Kaneki mutes himself again. Tsukiyama feels as though a great chasm has opened within his chest. It’s an indescribable feeling. There’s something like hopelessness, unfulfilled desire, and a doomed compulsion. Speaking to Kaneki like this makes him feel like he’s failed in some manner.

But Tsukiyama has never quit, once his mind has been made. He will struggle. It only add more spice to the inevitable victory.

“I’m...dangerous. No one has to tell me that—I might not understand what’s happening to me, but _this_ I _know_ , and…” Tsukiyama can hear Kaneki swallow thickly. “Lately I don’t feel like myself. No, I can’t remember the last time I truly felt like myself.

“Am I going crazy?”

“Kaneki-kun,” Tsukiyama says, and it’s patient, so very affectionate. He so desperately wishes he were there. “You are you. You’re always changing. The concept of ‘you’ isn’t just one moment in time, but the collection of everything you are, all that you’ve experienced. You can’t ever go back—and you shouldn’t—the only way is forward. So…” Tsukiyama shifts. He switches placement of his phone again, picks his pencil back up and twirls it.

“Don’t worry so much. Even if you were to lose yourself, we’ll always be here to bring you back.”

Another punctuation of silence. Tsukiyama can picture the cogs turning in Kaneki’s head, digesting his words. Kaneki, by nature, is paradoxically too trusting and highly suspicious. He wants to believe what Tsukiyama has told him, but he’s uncertain whether there’s any merit to it, especially considering its source. It’s a fair assessment.

A succession of light sniffles. A clearing of the throat. More rustling. Kaneki must be lying in bed. Tsukiyama imagines a darkened room, blankets pulled up over Kaneki’s head, faint blue illumination streaming out from his phone’s screen. It’s a very sad image, but also very endearing. It makes Tsukiyama feel so alone.

“It’s late. I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.” It sounds as though Kaneki has regained a bit of his composure. Tension that Tsukiyama hadn’t recognized he’d gathered releases from his body.

“Think nothing of it. Call me at any time.” Tsukiyama realizes, to his amazement, that he means it. He wants Kaneki to call him more.

Kaneki inhales, long and slow. Pauses. “Thank you, Tsukiyama-san.”

“Good night, Kaneki-kun.”

“Good night.”

Tsukiyama does not sleep.


	16. as certain dark things are to be loved

The lab stinks. It’s dark and dingy, the distinct sour odor of mildew pervasive throughout the hallways. Their footsteps bounce off the metal walls and are absorbed by the Rc cell walls underneath. The thought makes Tsukiyama shiver: this is as close to the 24th ward as he ever wishes to get. He sticks to the center of the path. The grounds are teeming with Doves, not to mention Aogiri’s unfortunate reappearance. They’ve all been blasted by Rc suppressant gas. Everything’s gone to hell.

He needs to hurry. Tsukiyama doesn’t care about the idiot trio following him like little lost ducklings. Kaneki had gone ahead. Banjou had run off mid-battle, following after the pair of black and white twins. With Aogiri added into the fray, Tsukiyama needs to return to Kaneki’s side soon. If that moustached man shows up again...or that “formidable” special class investigator...

Just a little while longer...please wait…

The scabbard calls for the sword.

“Tsukiyama-san...Tsukiyama-san!”

“What is it?” Tsukiyama wheels around, patience running thin. “We’re running out of time. Our priority is getting to Kaneki-kun.”

Number One continues to talk—wasting his time. “We want to find Banjou, but we can’t do it alone. If you’re truly our ‘ally,’ then please follow us.”

Ally? Who were they kidding? Tsukiyama smiles, lips pulling back to expose teeth. “Aren’t you annoying… Who are you to give me orders?” he sneers, the veins behind his eyes twitching. “Okay, then. Let’s play a game and pretend you all died en route. I wouldn’t even need to use my kagune.” His eyes narrow as the edges of his mouth turn up. “How about I give you a taste of a ‘ _real ghoul_ ’?”

A familiar voice—the wrong one—cuts in. “Tsukiyama! What are you planning to do to my friends?”

“Ah, Banjoi-kun, so you were alright, after all,” Tsukiyama replies pleasantly. The other is nearly doubled-over as he stumbles up to the group, one hand holding his abdomen. Tsukiyama smells blood. He reaches out, but his hand is roughly smacked away.

“Don’t touch me!” Banjou hisses. His face holds nothing but contempt. “I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

He doesn’t need this man’s trust. Tsukiyama only needs Kaneki.

His smile this time is close-lipped. “I was only kidding! Please, it was only a joke. More importantly, we need to move. Kaneki-kun...I can feel him calling for me…!”

They forge ahead, unspeaking. The gasmasked trio cluster tightly around Banjou, the four of them keeping a wide gap behind Tsukiyama. He can feel their eyes boring into his back. If he hadn’t been hit by that gas earlier, he’d gouge them all out with one sweep of his kagune.

How inopportune.

He hears a commotion in the distance, followed by a long stretch of silence. It’s unnerving. Tsukiyama can feel his kakuhou straining. Something in the air changes.

Tsukiyama knows that scent.

The first time he’d seen it, he’d been paralyzed by fear. Horror. Awe. It had taken him an entire body and the better half of a day to heal, and he’d still felt not quite right the day after. Tsukiyama is lucky that he is healthy and well-fed; any other ghoul likely would not have made it out of that encounter alive.

Kaneki approaches them slowly, covered in blood and hunched over. He looks so much worse for wear. Tsukiyama’s stomach clenches. That eerie mask covers most of Kaneki’s face. The twin tails and their spindly legs are gone, but Tsukiyama knows. He can smell the difference. He’d made Kaneki’s battlesuit to accommodate Kaneki’s newest addition, after all.

“Kaneki…!?” Banjou shouts in surprise, utterly too loud. “You...have a mask like that…?”

Of course they wouldn’t know. No one but Tsukiyama had seen him this way.

“Banjou-san?” Kaneki’s voice is so small. “Banjou-san...everyone… I’m so relieved…” He staggers over, closer.

Blood spurts out in a heavy arc. Kaneki’s hand rips through Banjou’s middle, taking with it bits of bone and flecks of flesh.

“... _that you came to save me_ ,” Kaneki grinds out between his teeth, a peculiar smile on his face.

He retracts his hand, poising to strike again. He growls. “You sprout.”

The trio shake themselves from their shock and rush at Kaneki, heedless, but he easily kicks all of them away, sending them flying. It’s like swatting flies. Tsukiyama swallows and readies himself. Banjou is unmoving on the floor. Kaneki is still under the influence of his incomplete kakuja form, which means...Tsukiyama needs to _do something_ , or none of them will escape from this godforsaken mansion. But without the use of his kagune…

“Kaneki-kun!” he calls out as he puts one foot in front of the other. He is not afraid, yet his legs feel like sandbags. “Please, come back to your senses!”

He gets a swift kick to the jaw for his troubles, feeling his shoulders slam mercilessly into the wall behind him. Tsukiyama’s world spins as angry stars explode behind his eyes. When he comes to, Kaneki is tearing at his mask, muttering over and over.

_I’llcrushAogiriIhavetoprotecteveryoneIhavetopluckthebadsproutsevenifit’smyselfI’msoweakbutifit’smeIcandoitbutI’mweaksoweakweakandthesinsjust-_

Tsukiyama has never seen Kaneki like this before. He doesn’t know what to do.

Suddenly, Kaneki stops. Stills. Silences. His fingers slide down his face as his eyes focus.

He screams.

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_  
_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_  
_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_

While Kaneki is distracted, the others race toward their fallen comrade. Something is bubbling up from under Banjou, traveling up and over his body. The red blobs are drawn like a magnet to the hole in Banjou’s chest, fusing the wound together.

“So that’s it,” Tsukiyama finds himself murmuring. _Monsieur_ Banjoi’s kagune grants him fast-acting healing. He’s an ukaku. It’s appropriate for a shield.

When the wound closes, Banjou struggles to sit up. He winces, nursing the tender, new skin. “Ugh, it hurts…”

“Banjou-san...I’m…” Kaneki sounds so weak, so utterly defeated. Tsukiyama doesn’t like it.

But Banjou only smiles at Kaneki, pushing past the pain. “Kaneki, you’ve...been carrying the burden of everyone’s weakness on your shoulders, blaming yourself when someone got hurt, bearing everything all alone without ever complaining. But that’s too much for one person, isn’t it? It’s hard.” He looks down and rubs at his stomach. “This is my fault: we’re just not strong enough to be of help to you.”

Kaneki’s bottom lip is quivering. Tsukiyama wants to be the one next to Kaneki.

“I’m fine. Please don’t blame yourself.” Banjou touches Kaneki’s shoulder and squeezes it. He speaks his next words gently, as to a child. “Before you can save anyone else, you have to be saved-”

The mask breaks with Kaneki’s tears. Tsukiyama feels sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through!


	17. a thousand tiny reservations

He has been lying in bed for so long that Kaneki is sure he’s carved an indentation upon his mattress. Since returning home from that mansion of nightmares, Kaneki hasn’t left his room. He had peeled himself out of his tattered battle suit, slunk into the shared bathroom, and had locked himself there the rest of the night. By the time he had exited, Tsukiyama had left, and all the residents had gone to bed.

Kaneki hadn’t known whether to feel relieved or abandoned.

The guilt of what he’d done—what he’d become—eats at his very core. Every member of his makeshift family had come knocking on his door in succession, pleading with him to come out and join them, but Kaneki had systematically turned each attempt down with a steadfast answer of silence. The only company Kaneki has seen in days has been the steady rise and fall of the sun behind his curtains.

He doesn’t deserve their concern. He’s done nothing but drag him into his personal mess, and if they continue to stay around him, he’ll just drag them all down further. Down, down, down—into hell with no return.

They’d be better off without him. Kaneki knows this, but he can’t find it in him to let them go. Not yet.

Sighing, Kaneki curls up tighter above the sheets. It’s July, just a few weeks into summer, but there’s a cold chill that lingers just over the surface of Kaneki’s skin and refuses to leave.

What is he even doing? What does he hope to gain in all of this? He’s not quite sure he knows anymore.

_“That’s enough, isn’t it? That’s enough for ‘merely a ghoul,’ isn’t it?”_

He is human. He is ghoul. He is an anomaly. As they had witnessed down in that lab, Kaneki could have met a very different fate. Those failed experiments...their forms bloated and distorted, minds gone...what had made him so different?

It wasn’t luck. Luck has no hold in his tragedy.

It would be easy to pin this all on Rize, but if not her, then it likely would have been someone else. These are dangerous times, but despite everything, Kaneki has always searched for the good. Life would be too hard, otherwise.

_“Have you been taking your medication properly, Kaneki-kun?”_

Organs...surgery...rejection… Rize is...alive. Yomo had somehow known. Kanou had kept her, probably since the accident. How many times had her body been assaulted; how many people had been sacrificed on the altar of Kanou’s madness?

_“Who put the world in the ‘birdcage’? Follow me, and I’ll show you the true form of this world.”_

What did that even mean? And how was the manager tied to all of this? Kaneki feels so lost, like he’s some character in a book, and everyone knows his own fate but him.

_“It’s your path. Try walking on it alone.”_

But Kaneki doesn’t want to be alone.

_“Boy, your heart is too ‘unpolished.’ Know your own weakness.”_

He doesn’t need to be told that. Shachi had made it abundantly clear with every punch and kick he’d landed. Despite all that training, all that effort, Kaneki had still been no match for the ghoul known as Orca.

What would it take to become stronger? He’s already tried all that he could. Consumed so many disgusting lives, morphed his body into an atrocity even worse than Kanou had ever done to him. Trained almost daily to build the muscle he’d always lacked. Filled his head with attack patterns and techniques, honed his reflexes so that he didn’t have to think about his reactions mid-battle. Was it all for naught?

This world...his world...doesn’t make any sense.

Kaneki crosses his ankles and slides his knees closer to his chest. His body has already healed from the injuries it has sustained, but he still feels ghost pains from where the quinques had struck and sliced him.

That investigator had let him get away. A debt repaid.

_“...I don’t want to eat anymore…”_

He’s destroying himself. He had nearly killed Banjou. If Banjou’s kagune hadn’t emerged when it did… Kaneki would have never forgiven himself. He still hasn’t forgiven himself, and Banjou lives.

_“You have to be saved-”_

Why is he so useless? He can’t even protect those who matter to him. He can’t even save himself.

A knock on the door interrupts his self-wallowing. Kaneki doesn’t move, but then something different happens from all the other attempts: the door opens.

“How are you doing, Kaneki-kun?” It’s the last voice he expects to hear.

Kaneki slowly pulls himself up into a seated position. He doesn’t want to be seen like this, least by Tsukiyama. He narrows his eyes but knows the effect is likely lost: he hasn’t been sleeping, and it must show. “...Sorry, but could you please leave me alone, Tsukiyama-san?”

Tsukiyama walks in despite the dismissal. “I don’t plan on staying long. I just thought you might want a distraction, so I brought some novels of my choice.” He sits on the edge of the bed, bold and unwelcome. Kaneki scoots away and tucks his hands between his knees. He doesn’t trust himself not to hurt anyone.

His visitor smiles. Kaneki can tell Tsukiyama is worried. Kaneki is worried, too.

“You needn’t be afraid. You needn’t hesitate to trample those who are in your way. Ants get crushed just by us walking, right? That’s ‘strength.’ You need not apologize for it.” Tsukiyama crosses his legs and folds his hands over his knees. Leans in just minutely closer. His gaze is gentle. Direct. “I will always be by your side, Kaneki-kun. Never forget that. It isn’t a shield or armor which will protect your life...but instead the dagger concealed near your pillow.”

With that, Tsukiyama rises. He places his gift on Kaneki’s nightstand and leaves without another word, closing the door behind him. Kaneki had wanted to reach out, hold onto Tsukiyama’s wrist and keep him there.

He truly is weak. It’s so shameful.

Kaneki wants to be alone. He’ll only end up hurting others. But the thought of being alone fills him with immeasurable terror and sadness. He had selfishly wanted Tsukiyama to stay, to put the other in harm’s way just to feel the presence of someone who knows him—all of him—the ugliness and weakness and shame.

He could try sleeping. He could return to his bed of pity.

The stack of books is like a magnet. Kaneki slides back up his bed, resting his back against the headboard. He reaches over and retrieves the topmost book. The feeling of his fingertips against smooth paper, the weight and edges cradled within his hands—they are all nostalgic.

_“It’s only when I’m immersed in the world of a book that I can forget myself and everything else. A lot of fiction is what supported me through painful and difficult times.”_

The memory is distant, but it comes crashing back to the forefront of his mind. Autumn and fallen leaves, another unlikely visit.

After all he’s been through, it’s hard for Kaneki to lose himself in fiction. Everything seems flat and washed-out. The books aren’t bad, but they just don’t grab his attention like they would have, a year ago. As Kaneki makes his way through the selection, his eyelids begin to feel heavy, the words blurring across the pages. He wonders if he’ll finally be able to sleep as he finishes the fourth novel and reaches for the last.

 _The Hanged Man’s MacGuffin_. It’s Takatsuki Sen’s eighth work. The author will forever be tied to Kamishiro Rize in Kaneki’s mind. _The Black Goat’s Egg_ , Takatsuki’s seventh work, had been the start of Kaneki’s misery. All he’d wanted was a simple book date with a girl who’d had a pretty face and had shared similar interests; he’d gotten a hole punched through his side instead. A new life that had been unwanted.

Kaneki cracks the book open and turns to the first chapter. He thinks of another date—after Rize’s and so similar—and acid burns up through his chest. Why did he always choose so poorly?

Time passes. Before Kaneki knows it, he’s on the last page. He’d actually enjoyed himself—when was the last time he’d been able to wipe away all his worries and lose himself in another world?

He thinks of the bottommost floor of their abode. His cheeks flush, although there is no one in the room to see.

Kaneki doesn’t know if Tsukiyama’s words are right, but he appreciates them all the same. They had started off on the wrong footing, and although most of the titles Tsukiyama had selected ended up being rather dull to him, Kaneki still feels a little closer to the other man.

_“That’s too much for one person, isn’t it? It’s hard.”_   
_“Can one become an adult by evading alone?”_

Tsukiyama had mentioned the cycle of revenge… Perpetuating or breaking it...which was Kaneki doing?

There’s another knock on the door, but this time it only cracks open hesitantly. Kaneki can see a clover hairpin peek out from behind it.

“Onii-chan…”

He could do better by her. He _should_ do better. “Hinami-chan,” he calls, and she bounds into his room.

“Ah, were you reading that too?” Her eyes are alight as they spot the book in his hands. “Takatsuki-sensei is holding a book signing today. I’ve always wondered what kind of person writes these books.” She looks at him. She’s still so innocent.

Kaneki closes the book and gives her the best smile he can muster. It’s only a memory of one. “Do you want to go? I think I’d like a little change in pace… Shall we?” The smile he receives is enough to blow all his misgivings and insecurities away, even if only a momentary respite.

As he gathers his things to leave, Kaneki’s eyes are drawn to Tsukiyama’s surprise present. Tsukiyama is the last person Kaneki had expected to give him comfort, especially given their history, but Kaneki can’t help feel warm whenever his eyes fall upon the stack of books waiting for him on his nightstand.

Always with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! Got hit with some real life emergencies. I'm obviously wayyy over the 31-day goal for this, but I remain dedicated to finishing it despite the setbacks! Thank you for sticking with it!


	18. she did not weep tears

Life as Fueguchi Hinami knows it is...rather boring, to be honest. She’s felt like a bird trapped in a cage ever since her mother died and she had been forced into hiding. Hinami knows it’s for her own safety—the CCG knows her face, and she’s still too young and inexperienced to defend herself. But staying cooped up inside leaves Hinami with very little to do. Although she loves every member of her new “family,” she longs for the outside, to see new faces and breathe in new scents, to hear more than just the same old shows on the television and the same patterns of life within the house. Her predicament has made her sympathetic to Hetare’s plight, and why she allows the cockatiel to wander outside its cage as often as she does.

She reads to pass the time. Sometimes it takes Hinami an entire day to get through a single chapter with how many kanji she must look up, especially when Kaneki is not home to help her. Having to stop so often breaks the fantasy held between the pages, but Hinami takes it in stride: she knows it is a necessary process.

Television has become a staple. Hinami now has adopted regular programs that she watches, and each represents a glimpse into a life she is forbidden. One, because she is not human. Two, because she cannot join the world and live freely. Even if she could, “living freely” isn’t something afforded to ghouls.

It’s not like she’s a prisoner, though. Sometimes, Kaneki and the others take her out on shopping trips or simple walks around the city, when it’s dark and distinctive features become less recognizable. She could leave, even, if she wanted. Return to Anteiku, where life honestly wouldn’t be all that much different. Just different faces and a slightly different routine. That’s the only other option she has. Hinami is too young to live on her own, and she has no blood family left.

The CCG took everything from her.

But Hinami doesn’t want to leave. Her onii-chan has helped her so much; if only there were some way she could repay him. She knows he doesn’t expect anything from her in return, but that fact only makes Hinami feel more helpless. She wants to support Kaneki. She doesn’t know what to do.

So instead, she watches. Listens. She knows whenever Kaneki is having a particularly bad day: Hinami makes sure there’s a pot of warm coffee and a freshly-laundered towel set waiting for him whenever he decides to leave his room on those days. Tries to give an encouraging smile, because he always seems to return them, and it makes the tired lines on his face a little less evident. Asks him about things that might distract him from his daily struggles. Sometimes, the light returns to his eyes.

She’s unable to penetrate the walls built around his heart, though—they’re too tall, too expertly constructed. She’s no match for them. Hinami wishes she could take on a fraction of Kaneki’s suffering, to let him know he’s not alone. That he is loved.

Living in the house with Kaneki is like witnessing a train blow by and being unable to stop it. It allows no passengers to board.

The Flower Man, though, is sometimes able to slow this train. Hinami notices how differently Kaneki acts whenever Tsukiyama comes around. It hasn’t always been this way. She had noticed how her onii-chan’s eyes would occasionally drift over to the other man, but it wasn’t until recent weeks that something in both of their countenances had changed. They both bring out a softness, subtle and fleeting as it is, in the other that Hinami has never seen before in either man. She’s uncertain whether anyone else has noticed this. Even the two men, themselves.

Hinami isn’t sure what exactly has transpired between the two, though. They spend a lot of time together. Sometimes they’re merely sitting in the living room, side-by-side, sifting through documents and photos that Hinami is not allowed to see, murmuring quietly. They remain like that far into the night, long after everyone else has gone to bed. Hinami can hear when Tsukiyama leaves, though. Sometimes it’s not until the morning. Other times, they lock themselves in the basement and don’t emerge for hours. They smell strongly of the other after these training sessions, but at times, the scent is different. Off. Hinami can’t place it, but it’s like their scents have combined in some fashion, taken on the traits of the other and made them their own. It’s a merging that seems almost voyeuristic for Hinami to have noticed and makes her feel a bit guilty. Strangely complicit.

The others, if they have noticed, have not said anything. It makes her wonder if she’s imagining things.

She likes Tsukiyama. He’s lively, if a bit odd, and spreads that vibrance through bringing colorful bouquets that remind her of the outside. Sometimes she doesn’t understand some of the words he says, but Tsukiyama at least always ensures to stop and talk with her whenever he visits. Hinami isn’t really sure why everyone else treats him with an air of distrust, because he’s only ever been nice to her. He’s the one who takes care of them all and never complains—none of them would be able to live as comfortably as they do if he did not. Sometimes he’ll even supply little luxuries, like gourmet coffee or a video game Sante had expressed interest in in passing, and provides them with their meals. He always remembers everyone’s food preferences. But for all his efforts, he’s met with narrowed eyes and disdainful sneers—a general attitude of tolerance. It makes Hinami feel sorry for Tsukiyama, and a little bit protective.

If Kaneki is able to accept Tsukiyama, then why can’t the others?

There’s a presence outside the door. She is the only one at home.

Hinami closes her book and rises from her place on the couch. A key enters the lock and turns. It’s a familiar reverberation.

“Yo, little lady,” a smooth voice calls out. Tsukiyama hadn’t been allowed inside the house by himself when they had first moved in, and he had never used his key until just recently. It’s another change that Kaneki has allowed.

“Ah, Tsukiyama-san. Onii-chan isn’t here, if you’re looking for him.”

Tsukiyama pauses just at the entrance of the room. He looks around curiously, then smiles. It’s almost enough to mask his disappointment. “Oh...is that so?” he says as he turns his attention to her, “I was hoping that he and I could go get coffee together, but… Hm. I know.” His smile grows wider. It reaches his eyes. “My little lady, would you like to come with me, instead?”

This is something he’s never offered her. Hinami has gone along on group trips, but never alone with Tsukiyama. “Onii-chan told me I wasn’t allowed to go out, though…”

He laughs, full of mirth. Sometimes Hinami thinks that Tsukiyama is the only one alive in this house. “Kaneki-kun treasures his little lady, doesn’t he. But you’ll surely wither if you stay inside for too long, am I right?”

He’s right. She’s dying to get out, if only momentarily.

Tsukiyama can sense her hesitance. “It’s okay,” he says, placing a hand over his heart, “If you’re with me, then you can relax.”

Hinami wonders if it really is okay. She still doesn’t know Tsukiyama too well, but she trusts him, regardless. Kaneki trusts him, too. Beside her, Hetare chirps.

She places her book on the coffee table and slides off the couch. “If you don’t mind waiting for me while I change, then I’d love to go with you.”

The smile Tsukiyama presents her reminds Hinami of the flowers he brings: beautiful and glowing, bursting with youth. Sadly ephemeral, but she’ll enjoy its presence while she can.


	19. without moving

Tsukiyama wonders how they ended up like this. It is after four in the afternoon. The heat outside has started to yield, but the sun still streams brightly through Kaneki’s window. Tsukiyama is glad for his forethought in having air conditioning installed in each room. The others had already been gone when Tsukiyama had arrived.

Objectively, Tsukiyama knows the series of events that had led them to this place. It had started in this very house, in a sweltering, sweat-filled basement where Tsukiyama believed he would die. Before then, it had begun with a kiss only visible to moonlight, a secret contained within the walls of a tiny kitchen. With one knee planted in damp grass, a pledge uttered into the cold winter air. But if Tsukiyama were to really think back, everything began with a visit to a coffee shop, where he had been seduced by the scent of a timid, black-haired new recruit.

Somewhere along the lines of these events, something had changed. What had once been confined to the lowermost floor of the house carefully crept beyond the door that had locked them in. Now, sometimes, when the house is empty, Kaneki would pull Tsukiyama into his room and instigate.

Two worlds separated by a common living space. Before, Tsukiyama could pass the encounters off as stress relief for Kaneki: a means of control in a life far beyond any measure of control. Or perhaps curiosity, or merely fulfillment of an adult body’s needs. That was before, when what they did together existed within their hidden world.

It’s now risen to the surface. It’s still hidden, but Tsukiyama feels it’s more in plain sight than ever. It has escaped—it’s only a matter of time before their secret is not so secret anymore.

Now, here, things are different. There is still a locked door. But sometimes, it would turn to more. Kaneki would kiss Tsukiyama as though the only way to breathe would be to pull the air from Tsukiyama’s lungs. He would touch Tsukiyama as though he were Kaneki’s lifeline. When they would finish, it feels as though a thread were tugging at Tsukiyama, connecting him to Kaneki in a way that hurts to think about. Kaneki could be so very demanding, but he could also be incredibly gentle—he often swings between the two, like a pendulum set into motion.

Sometimes, although Kaneki would always be the one who led Tsukiyama to his room, Tsukiyama would instigate, returning them to familiar territory.

This hadn’t been part of his plan. Tsukiyama doesn’t even know what his plan is, anymore.

He asks himself how long this will last. What he’s intending through this.

Certainly, Tsukiyama still desires Kaneki. That taste of him he’d had back in the church still hasn’t left his mind; it lingers at the back of his tastebuds, teasing. Pleading for more. An encore.

But if he eats Kaneki, this will end.

It is silent in the room, save for Kaneki’s steady breathing. Sometimes, like now, Kaneki would hold him. There is a safety that Tsukiyama feels, wrapped up in Kaneki’s arms. They keep him in place, but there’s a hesitance under the muscles, not fully trapping him. He could leave if he wanted to. He never does.

Somehow, despite being this close, enveloped by Kaneki’s scent—the very thing that had first captivated him—Tsukiyama does not want, not in that manner. His stomach only suppresses a low rumble. He does not salivate. Instead, Tsukiyama feels a crushing weight upon his chest, as though he could suffocate.

Kaneki is not asleep. He never sleeps after these moments, preferring to lie together in the quiet of the room until he sends Tsukiyama away. Tsukiyama wonders what Kaneki thinks of during these times: if there’s something he’s searching for, or if he’s simply retreated into his own mind. Tsukiyama does not move. He can feel the heat emanating from Kaneki’s body behind him, a contrast to the cool of the sheets above them. His skin is sticky and still damp in the place he’d given himself. His hands pillow his head, and he stares out into what has become familiar scenery.

Kaneki’s room rarely changes. There is occasionally a new addition to the bookcases, and the flowers housed within the small vase atop it change weekly: always a few stems from the bouquet Tsukiyama brings. He suspects this is the little lady’s doing.

There is a book on Kaneki’s nightstand. A bookmark sticks out haphazardly from the back of its pages.

“ _Great Expectations_?” Tsukiyama finds himself saying aloud before he has a chance to think about it or stop himself.

A small movement from behind—a short rise and fall of a head against a pillow. “Ah, yeah, I just finished it,” Kaneki replies after a pause. “I’d read a translation of it before, but this time, I wanted to read it in its native language.”

Tsukiyama has read it before, in the same ways Kaneki now has. A working-class fellow who had found a place among gentlemen, and an upper class lady who’d been raised to destroy him. Despite time and circumstance, they find each other and begin again. But it hadn’t always been that way.

“What did you think of the ending? ‘I saw no shadow of another parting from her,’” Tsukiyama quotes. “I always interpreted it that Pip and Estella had reunited.”

A light chuckle sounds from behind. Tsukiyama can feel it through the bed, shaking down to his legs. “It’s a romantic interpretation. But...I wonder about the original ending Dickens wrote, where the two reunite as changed people but part ways. It’s kind of like a catharsis. They’re able to move on.”

Tsukiyama frowns. “Isn’t that too sad, though? They both struggled so much for them to end up that way.” He breathes in, an almost snort. “The revised ending is considered the true one, anyway.”

Kaneki hums a sound of assent. Tsukiyama thinks the conversation has ended, but Kaneki speaks again, “But what about the shadow? Did Pip not see it because it did not exist, or because it wasn’t yet there for him to see…?”

Tsukiyama doesn’t know the answer to that.

They lie in silence.

“What is this?”

The words catch Tsukiyama off guard. They sound like they could be tender, but Tsukiyama knows not to seek meaning within them.

He is barren. “I don’t know.”

“They’ll be back soon,” Kaneki murmurs into Tsukiyama’s shoulder. “You should leave.” The arms that encircle him tighten minutely, betraying Kaneki’s words.

Tsukiyama does as he is told. What he doesn’t say is that he wishes he knew.

That he wants to find out.


	20. do not take from me your laughter

Kaneki’s voice is commanding from the other end of the line: “Come home.”

Tsukiyama falters. The two words echo in his ear.

“I have something I need to discuss,” Kaneki clarifies, low and less authoritative. He’s hiding something.

He stares at the screen of his phone long after the call disconnects. They’d spoken for less than a minute, but Tsukiyama can tell there’s a bomb waiting to go off when he reaches his destination. The question is, would he be able to diffuse it?

Kaneki had told him to come “home.” This is not the first time Kaneki has referred to their house as such, but it is the first time he’s related it and Tsukiyama within the same breath. Tsukiyama wants to feel glad, wants to see this as long-awaited progress, but he knows not to trust some things that Kaneki says.

When Tsukiyama arrives, tension sings within the quiet of the small living room, where everyone has gathered around Kaneki. He sits at the head, his hands upon his knees and back straight, feet firmly planted upon the floor. It oddly reminds Tsukiyama of seppuku. Perhaps Kaneki would order them all to commit it. Banjou sits to Kaneki’s left, the trio clustered at the sides. Little Hinami stands opposite, a shrinking violet in a mounting storm. Tsukiyama quietly joins at her right.

Banjou clears his throat. Plasters on an easy grin. “You’re being so formal right now, Kaneki. What’s going on?”

Kaneki stares straight ahead, like he’s looking at nothing. His eyes are hollow. “I have something I’d like to talk to you about...”

Tsukiyama knows this. But Banjou parrots Kaneki, suspicion bleeding out: “‘Something’...?”

_And we were silent again until she spoke._

“Please leave this place.” He sounds so disconnected.

_“I little thought,” said Estella, “that I should take leave of you in taking leave of this spot.”_

Kaneki’s direct gaze makes it feel like he’s speaking to Tsukiyama alone, a javelin straight through his chest. On a more reasonable level, Tsukiyama knows the demand is not meant for just him. But reason is at war within him.

Someone is speaking. It might be Banjou, or one of the numbered ones. Tsukiyama cannot tell. The only person he notices is Kaneki.

“You all have really helped me out. But I’m sorry...I...intend to go back to Anteiku.” He looks so defeated. Tsukiyama wonders what happened within the short timespan that he’d been gone. But if Tsukiyama were to be truthful to himself, Kaneki had been defeated a long time ago. The Kaneki who had persevered, who had burned with revenge and had painted himself with his enemies’ blood—that Kaneki had been a mere shell of a once-vibrant life force. A beautiful one, seductive and wild, but ultimately empty: the remaining fumes waiting to burn out.

Tsukiyama had helped that process along personally.

Kaneki’s fingers clench against his kneecaps. “I think I understand what Yoshimura-san was trying to accomplish, and I can probably still find the answers I’ve been searching for if I work with him. And most of all...I think I’ve finally realized...how wrong I’ve been.” With each spoken sentence, it seems as though Kaneki grows lighter. It’s like an exorcism. “And if all I’ve ever been is wrong, then I feel like I should return to the shop and start over.”

He’s ascending.

_“I am very glad to do so.”_

Tsukiyama doesn’t want him to leave.

“It’s been for nothing,” Kaneki continues, looking down. “Just myself. But despite all this, it’s not like I’m completely going away. I still intend to work behind the scenes, like Yomo-san does, and…” He looks up; Banjou leans forward. It feels like a punch to the gut. “From here on, this is just my own selfishness, but...I’d like everyone to follow me.”

A trill works its way up Tsukiyama’s ribcage and stutters through his chest. His bones close in, like they’re puncturing his lungs. Is this how it had felt for Kaneki, before? Below.

Did “everyone” include himself, as well?

He almost misses Kaneki’s next words. “I intentionally manipulated you all as I pleased. But I...still want to be with everyone.” Kaneki’s brows are drawn together. He looks so alone. “I wonder if it’s impossible.”

“Are you an idiot?” Kaneki’s eyes widen, but Banjou’s smile is confident. “From the start, my life was yours. I’ll follow you wherever you go.”

There is excited chatter of assent. Even Hinami leaves him, rushing forward to grab Kaneki’s hands and pull him to his feet. “ _Together with onee-chan_ ” rings in his ears.

Tsukiyama doesn’t understand. He knows he doesn’t belong. The room is warm, but he feels so left out. Discarded. He shouldn’t wish for fairness.

But even still, this place—these people—have felt like more of a home to Tsukiyama than his own.

His legs are working before his brain has a chance to catch up. “Kaneki-kun!” he calls as he approaches, “Can I become a part of that close family?” If it’s a pledge Kaneki wants-

Kaneki does not meet his eyes. “Tsukiyama-san...I’m sorry. I...can’t trust you, as I expected.”

_“Glad to part again, Estella?”_

He never should have hoped.

“But…” Kaneki says, and there’s the faintest of smiles across his mouth, “I think that even having that sort of ‘ally’ is okay. So if you’d like…” his eyes creep up, locking with Tsukiyama’s, “how about continuing to lend me that ‘sword’?”

His chest now houses an earthquake, whose tremors spread violently through his every nerve. His heart quickens. Tsukiyama is quite sure he’s never felt this way before, not by anyone. With Kaneki at Anteiku, contact would be limited, but…

He bends the knee once more. “ _Rubato_.”

When they retreat to their rooms, Tsukiyama makes to leave, but Kaneki catches him by the wrist. His hold is light: an option. “Stay with me tonight?”

It’s all that Kaneki can give him, in this last night.

Kaneki takes Tsukiyama’s hand and guides him through familiar hallways. After the door closes and locks behind them (a sound already so nostalgic), Kaneki releases Tsukiyama’s hand, climbs into bed, and beckons.

It’s like coming home.

The bed is small, but it’s familiar. _This_ is familiar. Crawling under the sheets, pulling them up and over, fitting bodies against each other like pieces of an unsolved puzzle. They adjust, finding comfort, and settle. Kaneki buries his face against Tsukiyama’s chest and sleeps.

As Tsukiyama’s breathing eases, beginning to match with Kaneki’s, he looks out and notices the book still lying on Kaneki’s nightstand.

_“To me, parting is a painful thing. To me, the remembrance of our last parting has been ever mournful and painful.”_

Would this become a mournful and painful memory for him?

Tsukiyama rests his hand against the soft hairs at Kaneki’s nape and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Entering the home stretch!!


	21. between the shadow and the soul

Once upon a time, Tsukiyama had held a charmed life. His mother was gone, but he still had so many others: Papa and Matsumae, Kanae and Mairo, and all the other servants and partners of the Tsukiyama household. Papa had said he looked a lot like Mama anyway, so it was like she was always with him, even if she weren’t physically present. Tsukiyama had never felt lonely, not even when Papa would be gone for weeks at a time.

He’d learned a lot of things as a child: music and martial arts, literature and mathematics, how to craft an eloquent sentence in different languages, the various mysteries and customs of the business world, how to blend in with human society. How to earn admiration and command a room. How to hunt. How to kill.

He had excelled.

Tsukiyama did not want. He had grown up in relative safety and stability, and everything had been given to him upon the slightest request. He was their young master; he was loved. It had filled him up, although somewhere, somehow, there had been a break. A fissure that had leaked out this love. His youth had become a series of games—something to pass the time, to keep up with his ever-passing interests, a way to fill back up the empty spaces. But everything dulled with time, except for his interest in food.

Papa had allowed this. Tsukiyama’s prey would be happy to be eaten by him, after all. What better way to spread the love he so easily received than through eating? As he aged, however, Tsukiyama realized that Papa had been wrong. Why would his prey scream, cry, and beg in their final moments if they were supposed to be happy? And so rather than an act of love, eating became yet another game. It had become a goal to work toward that had been his alone, no matter how superficial or superfluous the motive—the ultimate pursuit: the ultimate gourmet experience.

He is so, so very close. But if he were to obtain this ultimate experience, what would it mean for the remainder of his life?

It’s this thought that makes him feel so very lonely, despite having everything.

Tsukiyama wakes. It is the dead of night; he hasn’t been sleeping for long. He blinks. In the low light of the room, he can make out a pair of eyes shining in front of him.

Kaneki’s touch upon his cheek is soft. His fingertips just barely slide across Tsukiyama’s skin. Tsukiyama moves like there’s lead in his veins, but he draws a hand up and grips it against Kaneki’s, pinning it there. Kaneki’s palm is hot like a brand. They stare at each other, lying side by side, in silence. In stillness. Tsukiyama wants to ask Kaneki how long he’s been awake, but he doesn’t want to disrupt whatever is happening in this moment.

The pillow they share shifts under moving weight. Kaneki leans in and matches his lips against Tsukiyama’s, a tiny sigh escaping as they meet. Tsukiyama closes his eyes and holds his breath—if he allows his thoughts to unwind, he can feel the current of energy transferring between them, such a simple conduit. They break apart, and Kaneki’s eyes are bright in the darkness. It triggers an ache deep in Tsukiyama’s gut, traveling upward until it clutches and digs into his throat.

He needs more. Tsukiyama tilts his head until they meet again, and there’s a neediness that passes from Kaneki to him. The space between them closes as they tangle up, arousal blossoming and pressing. Clothes are kicked off and discarded, lost to corners of the bed and to careless piles on the floor. Tsukiyama allows himself to be consumed by their fire. He wraps a leg over Kaneki’s hip as Kaneki pulls him in, stroking wetted fingers between Tsukiyama’s shoulder blades and down the curve of his spine, pressing into him.

Tsukiyama grimaces as Kaneki slides into him, but it’s less from pain and more from the ache that has taken up residence within his chest. Kaneki presses his tongue into Tsukiyama’s mouth, rolling it lazily against his own and forcing him to breathe. He can feel all his defenses drop like heavy, abandoned weights with each successive kiss. Their bodies find rhythm and rock slowly against one another, hands grasping and gliding along skin dampened from exertion, muscles tensing and relaxing in tandem as pressure builds.

He keeps his eyes open. Kaneki does, as well. Kaneki is flushed, his bangs sticking against his face, but he’s never looked so beautiful. They gasp against each other, warm breaths mingling upon their lips as they shudder and still.

Kaneki laughs, stilted and small. Tsukiyama would burn the world to hear it again.

“Tsukiyama-san,” Kaneki says, hushed, his arms loose around Tsukiyama’s neck, “...If I were to ask...would you wait for me?”

Tsukiyama hears the words and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. There are so many things he could say.

Instead, Kaneki smiles. “Don’t answer that.”

It’s a moment disconnected from time.

There are words neither of them say but hang in the space between them. They are new to Tsukiyama, a language foreign and without lesson. He is not prepared. The only way of learning them is through immersion, but it is a lifelong process. Tsukiyama has only just begun. Or, he thinks that maybe he has. He isn’t quite sure. Once upon a time, he would have known. But nothing in his life makes sense anymore. He had always been such a planner, but these days, Tsukiyama feels out his waking moments with apprehension. He can no longer predict where they will lead.

This is Kaneki’s doing.

Tsukiyama wonders if the same words as his die in Kaneki’s throat.

Kaneki is still smiling. He leans down and presses his lips to Tsukiyama’s collarbone, up to the pulse at Tsukiyama’s jaw, and then places a kiss at the center of his forehead. It’s gentle yet decisive. Tsukiyama closes his eyes against his will, a beat like a frantic drum pounding in his ears.

They adjust, but Kaneki keeps him held close. “Thank you,” he whispers into Tsukiyama’s neck.

It’s already a mournful and painful memory. Tsukiyama’s eyes sting, but he’s sure his kakugan have long been faded. He nods, because that annoying ache has returned to steal his voice. Tsukiyama isn’t sure if ripping it out would make things better or worse.

Moonlight pools around Kaneki like a mantle. Everything about him is white: he looks ethereal. It’s like a funeral. Tsukiyama wants to spirit him away.

The moon watches over them as they sleep.

Tsukiyama awakens the next morning with the rising light of a new dawn. His heart sinks in response.

Everything ends now.


	22. we have lost even this twilight

> _That is why when I heard your voice repeat_  
>  Come with me, _it was as if you had let loose_  
>  _the grief, the love, the fury of a cork-trapped wine_

 

In the end, he is alone. The dream of returning to Anteiku, of restarting, had never fully been realized. The CCG, like it had for so many others, has taken that from him. Kaneki feels more fully a ghoul than ever before, even more so than when he ate human meat for the first time, or when he’d finally broken after ten days under Yamori’s “care.”

This is a reminder of the reality of his life. There is no place for ghouls in this world. They are feared—perhaps rightfully so—and exterminated upon sight. Some ghouls deserve this. Some kill for the sport of it, or use humans for their entertainment. Some ghouls carry no desire to assimilate into human society. But on the same token, some humans are worse.

Kaneki still believes in Yoshimura’s dream: that ghouls and humans could coexist. Kaneki is living proof of this.

_“To think that the Owl has been hiding in the 20th ward after all this time.”_

He just needs the rest of the world to know. Kaneki is the bridge between both worlds. But, for this to work, he needs the manager to be alive on the other side.

Despite it nearing the height of summer, night has cooled the air and eased the oppressive humidity. It makes wearing his battlesuit and jacket a little more bearable. He tugs at the edges of his sleeves to avoid cracking his knuckles. Peering out over the familiar skyline, looking upon the expanse of the city in full nighttime, Kaneki notices that the curves, lines, and splotches of light twinkle up at him. He wonders if upon the ground the variances are as noticeable, or if perhaps the city is simply trying to speak with him, imparting some secret message in shining Morse from which he would need to decode. What, if anything, would it tell him?

To save it? To run and save himself?

This is his city, going up in flames. It is not literally burning, but it may as well be. Bright pockets of unnatural light fill the streets: channels for a massacre. There will be nothing to return to.

_“...The shop can be remade. Surviving is what is important.”_

Kaneki had tried to warn them. He’d advised Yomo that they all should go into hiding. That the CCG were targeting Anteiku and Yoshimura. Yomo had seemed to agree—had even cautioned that Kaneki should follow his own words.

But it’d been too late. Or perhaps it hadn’t been enough.

Perhaps escape—survival—had never been part of the manager’s plan.

He’d naively believed that he’d managed to stopper the worst of it. By chance, Kaneki had come across an early warning; he had passed the message along. It should have been any other night, wandering around the bustling crossing at Shibuya. But then, a news anchor paired with the announcement in tall letters on the 109Men’s jumbotron:

_A large scale alert has been issued for the 20th ward. The area is currently off-limits. The target is a coffee shop that is suspected to be a den for ghouls._

It is the worst-case scenario.

Why is it that none of his homes ever lasted? Kaneki had enjoyed four years with the family he’d been born into—years he barely remembered. He’d lived six years with his family life having one foot in the grave, until his mother went to join his father at the age of ten. Things had started fine at his aunt’s house, until they no longer had been fine. Until his own blood had slowly and determinedly erased Kaneki from their own lives; he’d suffered through the loneliness and neglect until he’d hit his university years and could live by himself. Hide had been something of a home, but Kaneki had pushed him away. He’d told himself that it had been for Hide’s own safety, but really, he had been just running away, to another home: Anteiku. A safe haven for ghouls, a place of acceptance for an anomaly like himself. Aogiri had taken that from him the first time. It had lasted a mere two months. And most recently, the little house in the 6th ward, with people who’d felt like family…

Kaneki had taken that from himself.

All these places and people he’d once called home… Kaneki may belong to two worlds, but he holds homes in neither.

The horror and crushing despair he’d felt as he watched the news anchor’s lips move, sound waves compressing into a shrill ringing in his ears, had forged the resolve he’d needed to throw everything away once more. Perhaps this time, the things he had lost would come back to him. Isn’t that how the saying had gone?

“Are you going to go?”

Yes.

It takes Kaneki a moment to realize that the voice he hears is not in his head. “Were you always such a huge idiot?” The city casts a reflection off the person’s eyeglasses, but the smile underneath them is warm. This is unexpected.

“Senpai,” Kaneki murmurs as he slowly comes down from the scaffolding. Nishiki has already taken a seat by the ledge. Kaneki joins him.

“Everything’s ending so abruptly, just like this,” Nishiki says as he looks out upon the 20th ward. “The end...it always comes in a blink of an eye.” A scoff.

He’s not wrong. So many endings had come so suddenly. Father. Mother. Rize. Aogiri.

Here.

Kaneki turns to face Nishiki. His expression is relaxed, albeit sardonic. It’s like Nishiki has always been waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Nishio-san, what are you going to do?”

Another scoff, tinged with resignation. “You really are an idiot. Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to run away. If I jumped into that flock of doves, then the old man and everyone else would’ve died in vain. The last thing my shitty sis said to me was ‘live,’ so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll be with Kimi one last time, and then I’m gone.”

He sounds so resolute. Kaneki wishes he could be that firm—to put himself first. To live. But maybe what he’s doing is selfishness, after all.

How sad it would be, to be separated from the one you love, without it being your choice. For Nishiki, there is no other option. For Kimi, there is only acceptance.

Kaneki has also left someone behind. If given the option to be with that person again before parting, Kaneki isn’t sure he would have the same resolve to leave.

He’s always messing things up.

“Senpai...if I hadn’t brought you to the shop, then-”

Nishiki halts that line of thought. “If you say shit like that, you’re gonna piss me off.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I don’t blame you.” It isn’t a lie.

But really, he should.

Nishiki’s gaze drops to the floor. He squints. “Kaneki, there’s no need for you to do ‘that,’” he says, inclining his chin toward the mask lying at Kaneki’s side. “It’s okay to live a normal life. You have people who are waiting for you, right?”

He does. People who have pledged their lives to him. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

But the manager… Yoshimura had tried so hard, had waited silently all these years, had given so much to creating a safe place within their community. A place for his child to return to.

Kaneki smiles. It’s faint and feels nearly fake. “I had decided to try my best with everyone...but… I think, just one more time, I’ll try doing my best by myself.”

Even though he knows he’s wrong.

In the end, Kaneki couldn’t stay away, but now he must leave.

A voice anchors him in place.

“I won’t let you go.”

 


	23. travel through the shadows

They’re calling it a raid.

When Tsukiyama gets the phone call, he immediately goes to his TV and flips on the news, dropping his pen and scattering his notes for his research methods course. He has an exam next week. After, he should be on summer break: time he should be able to spend with Kaneki. It’s been three days since they last spoke. What stares back at him on the screen is a scene out of a nightmare: scores upon scores of ghoul investigators swarming the area around the unassuming little coffee shop.

Tsukiyama had never really given much thought to the inhabitants of Anteiku. The shop has a pleasant atmosphere, and its coffee is superb in comparison to other local cafes, but Tsukiyama had barely spared a single concern towards the ghouls who’d kept it in operation. Except Kaneki.

And Yoshimura.

The ghoul is someone Tsukiyama genuinely respects—one rare figure on a very short list. There had always been something comforting about the old man: perhaps it is his gentle countenance, or the way he welcomes anyone—both ghoul and human alike—through the doors of his establishment and treats them like family. Or maybe it is in the almost parental attitude the manager takes with his clientele, while still valuing their autonomy and without imparting judgment. Even despite knowing about Tsukiyama’s unusual pastimes, Yoshimura had never scolded or rejected him, or even tried to deter him.

Although the ghouls of the ward had enjoyed the small oasis Yoshimura had created, he had been considered odd by most ghouls’ standards for his appreciation of and fascination with humans. Truthfully, it might have been a shared sense of eccentricity that had drawn Tsukiyama to the man: mutual acceptance, and perhaps even a sliver of understanding.

But the end had finally arrived.

“Turn the news on. Now. No questions,” Chie had barked through the line. She had sounded slightly winded and more than a bit on edge.

If it were physically possible, Tsukiyama’s jaw would have dropped to the floor. Instead, his stomach clenches.

Kaneki is supposed to be at Anteiku.

“He’s not there—yet,” Chie answers without Tsukiyama having to ask. “But I can see him. It looks like he’s about to do something very stupid, so you better go collect your boy toy before he has a chance to act on it.” A pause. “He’s got that suit on. You’d better come quick.”

He knew he should have never left Kaneki alone.

“Where is he?” Tsukiyama says through the lump in his throat. His hands are shaking—it’s hard to keep a grip on his phone. His whole body has broken out in a cold sweat.

The sound of a camera shutter whirring then snapping is followed by a muttered ‘ _shit_.’ “There’s a perimeter set up. Two kilometer radius. He’s already breached it at the southeastern edge, ” Her voice is clipped, as though distracted.

Tsukiyama almost drops his phone. That’s nearly half of Nerima. If the CCG is covering that much ground, then… He swallows.

They mean to exterminate.

“That’s quite the infestation,” he utters.

“The 20th ward is under a curfew tonight, but only that area is under lockdown. All the street entrances and exits are blocked. The trains are down, too. Here, I can give you the coordinates-” She fires off a string of numbers so rapidly that Tsukiyama just barely finds a pen in time. “You’ll have to move on foot somehow. Think you can manage it?”

His throat is like sandpaper. “Yeah. I’ll have to.”

He hears rummaging, then footsteps quickening. “I’ve already checked out the area in question… It’s...not good,” Chie says. “Whatever you do, don’t stay there too long. And _don’t_ let him go. The doves are out for blood—just get in, and get out.”

Despite himself, Tsukiyama chuckles in amazement. “Hori, you truly live up to the little mouse image. I don’t know how else you’d get around as you do.”

Tsukiyama can just _feel_ her eye roll through the phone. “Whatever. You’re welcome.” The line goes dead.

There’s not much time. Tsukiyama is fortunate that he’d decided to stay at his apartment near the university during finals rather than return to the family estate. On a normal day, it would take him a good twenty minutes to walk to the cafe from Seinan Gakuin, and another ten minutes from home on top of that.

Putting him right outside the blockade.

Fuck. He doesn’t have _time_ to think. He’ll just have to make do, somehow. He’s an athlete. He’s in prime physical condition. He’s a ghoul. This should be child’s play. Tsukiyama punches the coordinates into his phone’s GPS, the seconds it takes to calculate feeling like decades.

He runs.

Belatedly, he doesn’t even remember if he’d closed the door to his apartment, much less if he’d locked it behind him. He doesn’t even care. Tsukiyama tears through the night, racing down back alleyways, careful not to be seen. As Chie had noted, no one but ghoul investigators are out.

It is almost comical how easy it is for him to break through the CCG’s perimeter. The investigators stationed there, not seeing much action, are so lackadaisical that it’s almost offensive. As Tsukiyama closes in, though, their numbers become denser, with large clusterings of doves dotting his route.

He adapts.

This is not the time to engage, although Tsukiyama would like to paint the streets with human blood and guts, just as they would surely do with ghouls this evening. But there are so many of them, and only one of him. It would be suicide. And he’d surely lose Kaneki. Every second that passes is precious. Getting caught up in an encounter would only serve as a detour, and by then, his target might have already gone. Even if Tsukiyama pushes his body to its limits, Kaneki might already have departed by the time he reaches his destination. It’s a gamble Tsukiyama is willing to take.

If he prays hard enough, would his wish come true?

He is lucky that he knows these streets: these are his hunting grounds. He knows every dead end, every fire escape, every passageway. Tsukiyama knows where the shadows are best and where to avoid exposure. Many a human have met their end here by his hands.

Closer, closer— _almost_.

When the dots on his map overlap, Tsukiyama abruptly stops and scans the area surrounding him. Where would Kaneki be-

Up.

The building before him is tall. Under construction. He could easily scale its scaffolding, but it’s a long way to the top.

He jumps and grasps, hauling himself up with shaky hands. His thighs feel like heavy tree trunks, and his lungs are close to bursting. His heart is like a jackhammer in his chest. He’s covered in sweat—Tsukiyama doesn’t even want to think what he must look like—he feels so much worse than after any sparring session, although he knows it couldn’t be true.

Tsukiyama’s vision starts to blur the closer he gets to the top. Sheer willpower drives him forward, although anxiety fights to restrain him. What if, upon reaching the roof, Kaneki isn’t there?

The night sky opens before his eyes. Two figures stand in relief against the brightly-lit city beyond them.

His heart has escaped.

It feels like a lifetime since he’s heard this voice. “I had decided to try my best with everyone...but… I think, just one more time, I’ll try doing my best by myself.”

No. Kaneki can’t leave, just as he’d arrived-

The words tumble from Tsukiyama’s mouth, unbidden: “I won’t let you go.”

 


	24. this hour of the dead

The distance between them feels like they’re standing on opposite shores, a vast ocean separating them from one another. Kaneki’s body goes rigid as he slowly turns on his heels to look back. His eyes are wide as they meet Tsukiyama’s—stricken. He looks...guilty.

But Tsukiyama had made it in time. Kaneki is still here.

The wrong voice calls his name. It makes the chasm feel deeper. Endless. If he were to tip over, Tsukiyama is certain he’d fall and fall, never reaching the bottom.

He’s so tired. The momentary lightness he had experienced upon seeing Kaneki’s familiar figure standing amongst the shadows has dissipated. His heart is heavy with worry; it’s a weight Tsukiyama has not felt since he was a child. His brain is short-circuiting. He has to _do_ something. Tsukiyama had raced over here without a plan, only a warning and a singular desire occupying his thoughts.

Air still passes through his lungs, yet Tsukiyama feels no relief. He swallows. His tongue feels swollen. It makes his words sound frail and clumsy. “...If something were to happen to you, Kaneki-kun, what would I do…?”

His legs move without command, shuffling him forward in sets of stunted lurches. A shrill ringing pierces his ears, rattling his loose grip on consciousness. Tsukiyama clutches his head and feels the dam that had secured his thoughts begin to break.

“If you go...then for what reason had I been controlling myself, all this time…? How can you expect me to simply hand over...my greatest...gourmet food?”

Tsukiyama won’t be thrown away so easily. His life had revolved around Kaneki for so long—he had _devoted_ himself to Kaneki, to his cause, so if Kaneki goes— _truly_ leaves—then what would it mean for him? Where would _he_ go? Would it all have been for naught?

This hadn’t been just a whim, this is-

Kaneki speaks. He looks so deathly serene. His voice carries a siren’s song, devastating enough to shatter whatever thin tie to rationality Tsukiyama had been tethered. “I have taken the danger into account.”

It’s a _lie_. How could Kaneki _know_ and still be willing to walk into the afterlife’s certain embrace?

Cloth rips; Tsukiyama’s kagune slithers and coils around his arm. This is a familiar weight. He had pledged himself as Kaneki’s sword. His time of service has arrived: his truest test.

The soles of his feet feel light. His muscles, once overtaxed and straining, robbed of oxygen, feel rejuvenated. It’s terrifying. His eyes sting, the network of veins atop his cheekbones throbbing.

He is the Gourmet.

He launches forward. “In that case, please die here!”

Tsukiyama moves like a man possessed: he swings and stabs his kagune with purpose; he does not hold back. Kaneki merely dodges, side-stepping before contact can be made, bending and twisting out of the line of fire. Acid burns within Tsukiyama’s chest, crawling up and out—is Kaneki not taking him seriously, when Tsukiyama is giving it his all?

“Can’t you see how many there are? Are you blind!” he screams, because Tsukiyama knows. He’s seen the news, he’s journeyed across forbidden territory to come here. He won’t stand for those filthy doves taking Kaneki from him—Tsukiyama would rather have Kaneki die by his own hand if he were so intent on ending his life. His outburst rewards him with a line cut across Kaneki’s cheek. The sweetness of Kaneki’s blood blooms in the space between them, but Tsukiyama’s stomach is hollow, and his nose only registers a dull imitation of the fragrance.

He’s losing control, if he had any to begin with. Time dilates. Perhaps if he can hold out long enough, he can distract Kaneki until the raid had ended. With each parry and strike, Tsukiyama reaches in and rips out his messy emotions in offering. He’s trained with Kaneki; he knows that as he is, he cannot win. Rinkaku trumps koukaku. But Tsukiyama had once been told that if he allowed his feelings to guide him, it would give him the strength to overcome any opponent.

This is a battle he cannot afford to lose.

“With the power you have, and even with my own connections and the strength of the Tsukiyama family, it still wouldn’t be enough! Just what are you asking of me, Kaneki-kun?!” he roars, giving in. It’s painful to admit all this, but he’s long abandoned pride for hard reality. “If you just _think_ about it, you’d realize that there’s nothing that can be done!”

Why does Kaneki value himself so little? Can’t Kaneki see what he means to him? How much Tsukiyama needs him?

Why doesn’t Kaneki _say_ anything?

“I won’t allow it! I won’t allow anyone to get in my way of eating Kaneki-kun. Even if that person if you, Kaneki-kun!”

What is he even saying? What is the truth? Tsukiyama doesn’t know anymore. All he knows is that he _must_ stop the person before him, at all costs. Nothing is sacred if it means fulfilling this one wish.

Kaneki stops. Closes his eyes. He is still. Calm. “Tsukiyama-san…” he whispers.

Hearing his name from those lips is like being run through with his own kagune.

“I WON’T ALLOW IT!”

Kaneki’s eyes open. One kakugan blazes under the cover of downturned lids. Tsukiyama sucks in a breath. He doesn’t even feel the impact, if it even comes. All he can register is the rough concrete he is now lying upon and Kaneki’s somber gaze as he stands over him.

He doesn’t need pity. What Tsukiyama needs is for Kaneki to _understand_ -

He’s never felt so weak or helpless in his life. Not even in the church, when he was straddling the entrance of death’s door, nor when his kagune had first revealed itself when he was a child. Tsukiyama doesn’t even register that he’s crying; he can’t remember the last time he’d cried or for what purpose. All he can feel is the contrast of his tears against the summer heat as they roll down his face and collect under his cheek—the visible proof of his defeat. He hates this weakness, if only for the fact that his vision is blurring what will surely be his final image of Kaneki.

If reason won’t reach him, then… “For dear life, Kaneki-kun,” he pleads, low and resigned, “would you please not go?”

Kaneki crouches down beside him. Tsukiyama wants to crawl over, clutch at Kaneki’s shoulders and pin him in place. Shake him until Kaneki has returned to his senses. Why does Kaneki feel so distant? Why must it have come to this?

The pad of a thumb brushes underneath his eye, wiping away his tears. The tip of a finger traces through the bangs stuck to his forehead. Tsukiyama is so numb, he can’t even shiver. All he feels is an all-consuming sadness, draped over him like a sheet. It has become his only remaining security in the world that is crumbling beneath him.

“...I’m sorry, Tsukiyama-san,” Kaneki says, and the touch disappears. “Thank you for coming to stop me, but...I don’t want to be unable to do anything.”

It’s poison, those words.

Rising to his feet, Kaneki gives him one last gift before securing his mask: a smile, so gentle and kind and destructive.

There are footsteps, and then there is nothing.

Night passes. Morning calls.

The pool of tears that had collected underneath his cheek has long cooled, and as the sun rises over the horizon, Tsukiyama feels the last piece of himself burn away with it.

 


	25. tunnels where the moon lived

An angel is tending to a field of flowers in the sewers. He is dressed in all white, surrounded by gradients of red. It’s hard to see his face. There’s something haunting about the scene as Kaneki stumbles upon it. He feels like an intruder, trespassing upon hallowed ground. He just needs enough time to collect himself, and then he needs to find the manager…

Hide had told him to give it his all, this one last time. He’s going to try his best.

He’s been seen. It’s so quiet here, save for the sounds of water flowing behind the walls. The stench of the flowers is overpowering—like they are past their prime and rotting. The figure turns, revealing himself. Kaneki knows this angel, although this is their first meeting: he is known within ghoul circles. Feared. Undefeated.

The Reaper, Arima Kishou.

Death has come for him, in the form of a dove. Kaneki finds him strangely beautiful. It’s different from Tsukiyama’s beauty: where the latter is warm and alluring, the former’s beauty is cold and detached like a monument.

This had supposed to have been their escape route. V14. Irimi had told him to go here. Everyone involved in the raid knew to flee to the 24th ward, and V14 would take them there.

But no one’s here. Only him and the Reaper.

Because death had already come for everyone else. Complete, crushing despair overcomes Kaneki as his vision flickers and clears. He was not standing in a garden, but atop a grave.

He needed to act, or else Kaneki knew he would become the latest addition to the piles of corpses surrounding him. If he could claim the offensive, then there would be a chance at survival.

The Reaper approaches. Kaneki doesn’t hear him—doesn’t even see him—but suddenly Arima has passed him, and his mouth is filling with blood. Kaneki chokes, sharp pain searing through his middle where he’d been impaled. He barely has enough time to recover his senses after the quinque has left him before half of his vision blacks out.

His cheek is wet, just below his kakugan. Kaneki reaches up with shaky fingers. Something sharp is protruding from his head. A warm waterfall is gushing from his eye.

He screams.

It feels like he’s been electrocuted: Kaneki can’t move; his body has seized up and refuses to cooperate. And then, whatever shock had kept him upright vacates, sending his body to the ground like a ragdoll. His thoughts are scattered—they fall through his mind like water passing through a sieve. There’s nothing to grasp.

Trickle, trickle, trickle.

Except-

_"Dribble-dribble—trickle-trickle—what a lot of raw dust!"_

_mybrainisleakingoutmybrainisleakingoutmybrainisleakingoutmybrainisleakingoutmybrainisleakingoutmybrainisleakingoutmybrainisleakingoutmybrainisleakingoutmybrainisLEakinGouTmyBrainisleakingingOUtmybRainisleaKingoutmyyybraaaiiinissssssss-_

_"My dollie’s had an accident and out came all the sawdust!"_

Words and phrases and passages are jumbling in his head. Things from yesterday, from ages ago, things that could be false or wishful thinking: there is no differentiation.

Melt—melt—melt. He’s melting. This is no time to melt.

The Reaper keeps a distance, watchful. Waiting. Prowling.

He’s going to die here. This is the end, and he’s going to die, and-

And maybe this isn’t a bad thing. He could finally rest, because living has been too painful.

A voice from the past calls out to him. _Calm down. Anything is fine._

He needs to pull himself together. Whenever he’d had a moment of anxiety or trouble as a child, Kaneki would recite things to himself. Lines of poetry or monologues from books—anything would do, as long as he could focus on that one thing.

_So, focus!_

His knees creak underneath him. His body feels like dead weight. But Kaneki roots himself and brings himself upright. He will not die prostrating. Kaneki pulls a memory from deep inside him, opens his mouth-

_And...action!_

“He is Ainu. His eyebrows shining, white beard falling upon his chest.”

When Kaneki’s father had passed away, it felt like they had spent an eternity at the temple. He remembers a sea of black suits, his mother one of the few in attendance wearing traditional kimono. They had offered incense while the priest had chanted. His mother had helped him.

“Outside his home, the grass tatami is laid out with a rustle, and in his dignified attus, holding his makiri, sharpening, sitting cross-legged, deep in thought, those eyes focus…”

It had been a frightening experience, although Kaneki doesn’t remember much of the specifics. Just the distinct feeling of unease and fear. He had been too young to really understand what had been going on. He doesn’t even remember if he’d felt sad.

“He is Ainu. The god of Ainu Mosir, descendant of Onya-Kamuy, of Okikurumi.”

They had placed flowers around his father’s head. Kaneki doesn’t remember his father’s face, even in death. His mother had collapsed upon the coffin in tears. She’d held his hand as they'd watched the coffin slide into the incinerator.

“Perishing is the living corpse.”

After, Kaneki remembers his relatives lined up in two rows as they had passed his father’s bones from chopstick to chopstick, down to the urn. His mother hadn’t made him participate; instead, Kaneki had sat to the side and had played with her prayer beads, turning the cool stones around in his hands as he’d watched. He remembers the clinking sound the bones had made when dropped.

“The summer day, the white sunbeams, he stares downward, stunned motionless.”

When he dies, who would come to pick his bones?

It’s summer. He cannot feel the sun, but Kaneki is still, hands perched upon abused knees, gaze to the floor. As he is now, he is a living corpse.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, mainly to fill the silence, and because it’s the truth. “Hakushuu.”

“Ah...I see…” the Reaper speaks for the first time. Kaneki looks up. He wishes he could see the expression his opponent is making. Everything’s a distorted blur. “You are…”

Arima closes his mouth. Something shifts on his face. He looks up, away. “The rain. If you’re underground, it’s impossible to know what the weather is like outside. Your sense of time also dulls. However, you can tell if it’s raining by the sound of the water.”

Kaneki doesn’t know why Arima is telling him this. But it’s buying him time—time for his injuries to stitch themselves back up, for his brain to stop leaking-

“This will be over very soon,” Arima says, low, as he slides his feet apart. “This is V14. No ghoul can pass further than this place. You…” he raises his hand, “cannot go further than 14.”

Blasts of lightning ricochet off support columns and the walls of the tunnel. Kaneki scrambles to his feet, runs as the floor breaks apart under him, checkerboard tiles splintering. A few bursts hit him, and Kaneki can hear his skin sizzle, the stench of burning flesh throwing him back in time.

No. He’s stronger than back then. But Kaneki knows that this time, however, it’s unlikely he’ll be spared.

“Remote activation.”

Pain assaults his every limb. His mind is shattering. The dove is a monster. There’s no other word for it. But...the ghoul investigator is merely a human. Just one hit should take him down.

Kaneki has to try.

His kagune explodes outward: this is his last gamble. His body is too overtaxed, and his brain is only sending half the signals it should to the rest of him. Surely, surely, this would work-

There’s a faint cracking noise.

“You did well...Kaneki Ken.”

And then, just like that first time with Rize, his insides are scrambled.

So this is it. As Kaneki lies prone on the ground, another bag of meat to join the endless piles, he regrets. What would become of the others when he’s gone? Will it even matter? He had pushed so many away, all in the name of protecting them.

He’s so, so tired. He’s given it his all. It hurts.

As the Reaper bears over him, the tip of his quinque poised to strike, Kaneki absurdly thinks of a daruma. One eye has been filled in: a wish made. The other will soon go: a wish fulfilled.

He's scared. He wishes his mother were here.

He wants to die. He doesn’t want to die.

 _“You have always held your place in my heart,”_ Pip had said to Estella.

He hadn’t even said a proper goodbye.

A disembodied voice. “I’ll need a new quinque.”

Whose wish would come true?

As the second blow comes, another poem crosses Kaneki’s mind. Another of Hakushuu’s, from _Black Cypress_ , a volume from his father’s collection.   

> _I strain my eyes_  
>  Toward a glass door  
>  _Bright with the decisive cold_  
>  _Of moonlight._  
>  _I am going blind._

His lips won’t move. This poem is his lament, his eulogy. His coffin. Like the dark branches of the cypress, it will carry him away to the afterlife. But this is no funeral for a fallen hero.

It is merely a mercy killing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ode to an Old Ainu" translation by Morbid from Twisted Hel Scans. Tanka from _Kurohi_ translation by Margaret Benton Fukusawa. Nursery rhyme by Rudyard Kipling.


	26. a question has destroyed you

“I won’t let you go.” It’s the last voice Kaneki expects to hear. It’s the only voice that could threaten to shatter his resolve.

He doesn’t want to look. If he looks, he could break. He has already made up his mind. But Kaneki cannot deny Tsukiyama like this, not when the other has gone to such lengths to find him. He turns, slowly, breathing in shallowly. He looks.

Tsukiyama doesn’t resemble his normal self. He’s panting, doused with sweat, the tails of his shirt untucked and rumpled. He must have rushed over here...who knew what kind of confrontations he’d faced along the way. It makes Kaneki want to frown, but he steels his face instead, not wanting to miscommunicate displeasure.

With uneven steps, Tsukiyama begins to close the distance between them. His voice, usually so loud and confident, is weak and desperate. “...If something were to happen to you, Kaneki-kun, what would I do…?”

It gnaws at Kaneki’s heart to see Tsukiyama like this. He’s nearly stumbling, clutching at his head as though in pain. Kaneki wants to reach out to him, steady him, tell him everything is going to be alright. But he can’t. If he were to go to Tsukiyama now, Kaneki would not leave. He can’t bring himself to tell him a lie, either.

“If you go...then for what reason had I been controlling myself, all this time…? How can you expect me to simply hand over...my greatest...gourmet food?”

Tsukiyama has always known how to hurt Kaneki.

If Kaneki refuses to lie here, then he also refuses to accept lies. “I have taken the danger into account.”

He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Tsukiyama bears his teeth, his large kagune wrapping around his arm, its tip straightened and sharp like a sword. “In that case, please die here!” Tsukiyama cries before racing forward, striking with lethal intent.

It feels like another sparring session, although the stakes are much higher. So many times in that basement, they had come close to killing each other. Here, above the city they call home, one of them could very well die. But Kaneki will not be the murderer. He blocks every swing, spinning and ducking to avoid Tsukiyama’s relentless attacks. He knows it must infuriate Tsukiyama that he has chosen to stay on the defensive, but he’s already hurt Tsukiyama enough.

“Can’t you see how many there are? Are you blind!” Tsukiyama screams, throwing Kaneki off-balance. A sharp sting cuts across his face—Kaneki feels the warmth of his blood flow down his cheek before it stitches itself back up. He needs to end this, quickly. He’s running out of time, and the longer Tsukiyama goes on, the latter’s grip on his control loosens.

Something about this fight fills Kaneki with sorrow. Perhaps it is in the way Tsukiyama moves, or in the rawness of his voice. Despite the outward appearance of his words, it feels like this is the most honest Tsukiyama has ever been with him.

“With the power you have, and even with my own connections and the strength of the Tsukiyama family, it still wouldn’t be enough! Just what are you asking of me, Kaneki-kun?! If you just _think_ about it, you’d realize that there’s nothing that can be done!”

Tsukiyama is right. Maybe this is a hopeless venture. But he has to try. He just can’t abandon Anteiku like that—he owes them so much. Kaneki has never been the type to try to save himself, even if it’s from himself. Part of him is aware of this trait. But it’s the only way he knows how to love—to live for others. But if he were to live for Tsukiyama, right now, then so many others would perish.

_“Become a person who gets hurt.”_

Mother...he’s so sorry. He’s been such a bad son. He will hurt someone very dear to him tonight.

But he must finish this.

Kaneki stops. Closes his eyes. He is still. Calm. “Tsukiyama-san…” he whispers, shutting out the world. His kakuhou trembles as blood collects in his eye, turning it to black and red. A warning. When he opens his eyes, Tsukiyama is screaming at him, but he cannot hear what is being said. Ah, this is so much harder than he imagined it would be.

He does not use his kagune, despite its preparation; to do so would feel too impersonal. Kaneki waits until Tsukiyama draws close, until he can feel the heat of Tsukiyama’s body radiate against him, and slams his forearm into the other’s diaphragm, pitching him backward.

One blow is all it takes. Tsukiyama falls to the floor and does not stir.

Tsukiyama is crying. Kaneki feels like the most despicable villain in the world. “For dear life, Kaneki-kun,” and his chest twists, because he’s never heard Tsukiyama like this, and it’s all his fault, “would you please not go?”

Why must he ask the impossible of him? During their time together, Tsukiyama had made few requests—he always gave, even when Kaneki was undeserving of such generosity. And now, Kaneki can’t even grant one favor.

His knees bend. Tsukiyama does not move. Tears fall freely from his eyes and roll across his face. To think that someone would cry for him...it warms Kaneki’s heart even as it breaks. Although he knows it’s a bad idea, Kaneki reaches out and strokes underneath Tsukiyama’s eye, brushing back the tears. Sweeps a fingertip across Tsukiyama’s forehead and through his bangs. He retracts, disconnecting them before doubt can creep in to change his mind. Tsukiyama’s skin is cold, when it had always been so warm. “...I’m sorry, Tsukiyama-san,” Kaneki says, because it’s true. He means it. He’s so very sorry, for everything that has happened, and for everything that will come to pass. “Thank you for coming to stop me, but...I don’t want to be unable to do anything.”

 _“I little thought,”_ Estella had said, _“that I should take leave of you in taking leave of this spot.”_

But Kaneki is not the least bit glad to do so.

As he rises, Kaneki pauses before donning his mask. He smiles at Tsukiyama, because if this becomes the last time they will ever see each other, then he wants Tsukiyama to at least remember him this way.

He descends.

Racing through the city, disarming ghoul investigators along his way, Kaneki’s thoughts keep retreating to that rooftop. It’s dangerous to be distracted in this way, but the encounter had only confirmed things further in his head.

Sometimes, and lately with increasing frequency, Tsukiyama scratches at Kaneki’s heart. Kaneki wants to trust him, wants to trust his own instincts—he sees the real person, the _good_ in Tsukiyama. And all this time, Kaneki has been willing to give his heart; he’d just been waiting for Tsukiyama to catch up.

It’s too late now. Kaneki has stood by his decision. Maybe if he survives this, they’d have a chance.

He wants them to have a chance.

 


	27. the night wind revolves in the sky and sings

He’s counting backwards by sevens. A thousand has already dwindled to seven hundred.

There’s a child all alone in a playground, sifting through grains of sand. They are surrounded by familiar places: crowded streets with low-hanging power lines and tall buildings, a park tucked into a small alcove of a neighborhood, a sky colored like amanatsu.

This is a snapshot from his childhood.

His mother hunches over their small coffee table, various craft supplies scattered around her in boxes and on the floor. “Welcome home, Ken,” she says absently over the sharp snip of wire. Pliers clatter onto the tabletop. Her arms are the only things that move. Cut, join, twist, roll. Another flower added to a box. It’s like she’s filling coffins.

Black nails mar the memory.

Why won’t she ever look at him?

“Mother,” Kaneki croaks, grasping at the back of her sweater as though he were still a needy toddler, “you don’t have to go so far.” She was always working. Always striving towards some invisible, unattainable goal. So foolish. “Please look at me.”

A small laugh. Dismissive. “What’s the matter, you strange child?” She does not turn.

This is how she ended. Mother had wanted to save everyone, and as a result, she only ended up sacrificing herself—all that work spent digging an early grave.

All because she wouldn’t choose.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Banjou, who couldn’t defend himself. Nishiki, who had resolved to part from his most important person. Hinami, an innocence he’d wanted to preserve. Tsukiyama. The manager, whose wishes he had wanted to fulfill. Touka, who had only spoken the truth.

After his father had died, Kaneki’s mother had been afraid of losing another important thing. And so she gave and gave until nothing was left but a husk of a person. It wasn’t kindness. She had just been afraid of being alone.

Kaneki is the same. A coward. He had wanted to protect everyone so that they wouldn’t be taken from him. So that they wouldn’t leave him. But in reality, the one he’d wanted to protect had been himself. That lonely little child, waiting for love, playing by himself in a sandbox. Waiting for someone to find him.

He’s so selfish. He’s hurt so many people—first of all, himself.

The child turns as Kaneki approaches. He’s so young, black-haired with lingering baby fat, still ignorant of the horrors that await him in years, yet already knowledgeable to the cruelties of life. Kaneki crouches and offers his hand. “It’s getting dark. Let’s go back.”

Brushing his palms together and smacking the sand from his shorts, the child nods and places his tiny hand in Kaneki’s.

Together they depart. Kaneki walks hand-in-hand with himself under an ominous black and white sky, no longer the familiar scenery of memory but the hazy drifting into the unknown. Vivid, spindly red flowers reach up at them as they traverse. A field of fire, fueled by blood.

Hakushuu Kitahara had once written, _“I find that I remember the past more deeply now that I have lost my eyesight, and the poignance of my memories grows stronger as my perception of reality weakens.”_ Kaneki wonders if the poet had found his gradual descent into death’s embrace frightening or comforting. Kaneki knows what awaits him. He doesn’t know what to feel.

The child’s hand is almost weightless, so fragile and phantom-like. So very different from the last person who had held his hand. Kaneki aches for the touch of his other.

Wanting to break the silence, Kaneki asks the only question he at once knows the answer to and yet does not know. “Do you...love...your mother?”

A shy smile is offered, alongside a touch to the chin. “Mom is great. She always gives her best.” And then, brighter and wider, “I want to become just like her when I’m older.”

Who knew one could break one’s own heart with one’s own words. Kaneki falls to his knees, crushing the flowers but not caring. They’ll all die, anyway. Eventually. Hot, shameful tears slide down his face. He’s past the point of control. He never had any control over his life, to begin with. “I’m so sorry. Everything’s my fault.”

He expects to be pushed away in disgust. To be abandoned. For his younger self to blame him and kick him to the ground where he belongs. But the other him takes Kaneki and holds him, soothing his pitiful cries. “You saved me countless times,” Kaneki tells himself, “You fought for me, when I was weak and helpless. I’m not angry at you.” Soft fingers thread through his hair and hold him close. “Thank you for everything,” his innocence whispers.

He feels himself fading away, bits and pieces of memory escaping to some far-off place.

“Let’s rest...for a while.”

...Twenty-eight...twenty-one...fourteen...

Everything had been for love.

Once upon a time, he’d been in love. Perhaps that person had loved him back. Maybe Kaneki will never know.

When Kaneki had been a child, he’d read his father’s collection of books over and over, to the point where he had almost memorized them all. Among the multitude of novels and biographies, textbooks and manuals, there had been several anthologies of short stories and poetry. Kaneki remembers the famous ones and the ones he’d studied in school, but a certain poet’s works had always stuck with him, for their fierce passion and sweeping romance. As his life comes to a close, a page from those books rises to the surface, clear as when he’d first laid eyes upon it.

> _Soon my life will close._  
>  _When I am beyond this world_  
>  _And have forgotten it,  
>  _ _Let me remember only this:  
>  _ _One final meeting with you._

It hadn’t been how Kaneki had wanted to part from him. Their final meeting should not have carried such irreversible sorrow. But there is no time for regret. He is out of time.

Kaneki wonders where these feelings will go, after he’s gone. If he ever has a chance of returning. But for now, he wraps himself up in love and sleeps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hakushuu translation from _Patterns of Water_ by Margaret Benton Fukusawa. Translation of tanka by Izumi Shikibu by Clay MacCauley (revised by the [Japanese Text Initiative](http://jti.lib.virginia.edu/japanese/index.html)).


	28. he returned to the agony of his native land

Flipping through the photos on her camera’s viewfinder, Hori Chie smiles to herself. She’d only managed to fill three memory cards’ worth of images, but it had been a good night. Action. Danger. Excitement. Lots of quality dirt. She’d had to put her neck on the line—sometimes quite literally—to get some of the shots, but all her efforts had paid off.

Chie was looking forward to quite the pay day ahead.

She had even managed to get a few of Kaneki as he’d jumped down into the fray, long, blood-red kagune trailing after him and leaving wreckage in his wake. She had lost him somewhere in the chaos, though, which had been quite concerning—despite her short legs, she was impressively fast, but still no match for a ghoul.

It had meant that Tsukiyama had failed.

And Kaneki… The raid is over, now. The CCG had already collected its bodies and the corpses of ghouls they would turn into weapons in the hours before dawn. Chie hopes Kaneki is not one of them.

For Tsukiyama’s sake. She didn’t know what kind of effect losing Kaneki would have on him. He is quite...“obsessed” isn’t really the right word. Before, in the beginning, that may have been true. Something along the way had changed for him. It had made Tsukiyama more interesting. A beast miming humanity until he’d gotten too caught up in his own act. But the fool had plodded along in his ignorance, trying to fit Kaneki into a box that would never contain him once that change had cemented.

The only way to tell would be to find Tsukiyama. He could’ve gone home. He might’ve even gotten captured or killed, himself. Either outcome is unlikely—Tsukiyama is still Tsukiyama, and he will continue to survive through selfishness. They are alike in that regard.

Well, the logical place to check would be the location she had given him over the phone. Chie laces her hands behind her and tucks her elbows in, rolling her shoulders back and enjoying the lengthening of cramped muscles. She’d had to crouch a lot during the previous night, stuffing herself into narrow nooks and between tightly-constructed buildings to avoid detection. It’s probably the number one reason why she’s thankful for her petite figure, the second being the ability to still convincingly order off the kid’s menu and enjoy other various discounts. After bending to touch her toes, she jogs a bit in place before taking off. Turning a corner, Chie runs through a residential side road, splashing through puddles of filthy water, her camera bag smacking her hip in a clipped one-two beat. A stray cat hisses as she races by. She slows to snap a picture of it and sticks her tongue out at it in farewell.

Her clothes have mostly dried, thankfully. She hadn’t anticipated the rain, although working in less-than-ideal conditions is a given in her field. Flexibility—adaptation—are key. Chie hustles down the streets, swinging her arms back and forth to get some air in them. If they don’t dry by the time the humidity picks up, she’ll be stuck in soggy clothing until she gets back home. While Chie is mostly immune to gross things, _being stuck_ in gross things is something she’d rather avoid if possible.

It takes her a while to get there, having to clear twelve city blocks to reach her destination. It’s still early enough that the streets are largely quiet and uninhabited, or perhaps it’s just the shocked silence in the aftermath of a slaughter. It’s not often that curfews and lockdowns are issued, but when they are, death is a certainty. Although it means increased safety, these incidents never sit well with the residents.

He’s alone when she finds him, an unopened can of black coffee standing at attention by his face. He’s completely immobile, prone and open on the rooftop. If she were a ghoul or an investigator, she has no doubt she could easily kill him, as he is. Chie frowns a little and strides over, stooping next to his head.

Tsukiyama is...actually worse than she’d thought, now that she sees him up close. His eyes are open and bloodshot, tears and mucus streaming from his eyes and nose. His mouth is slack, white teeth peeking out from between parched lips, and his hair covers half of his face. His clothes are a mess. Although Tsukiyama exists before her, it feels like there’s no one there at all.

“Yo,” she says as she taps the top of the aluminum can. “I’m gonna take this if you don’t drink it.” It’s a lie. She hates bitter things. Tsukiyama, normally so territorial, doesn’t even flinch.

She falls back and sits cross-legged next to him. Tilts her head and pokes his with one sharp jab of a fingertip. His hair is completely wet. He must have been lying exposed the entire night. The action jostles him out of whatever trance he’d been in. One red eye slowly rolls up to look toward her.

“Hori…” he breathes, low and lifeless.

“Yup,” she chirps, cradling her camera in her hands. They itch to press on the shutter button, but something about this doesn’t seem right. “What are you doing down there?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Is the ground really that comfortable?” she asks as she stretches out next to Tsukiyama, folding her hands over her stomach and staring up at the sky. It’s a clear, pale blue. If she were to take a picture of it, it would look just like a paint color chip.

They lie like that for what could be minutes or hours. The sky has darkened, just a little. A bit more vibrant and saturated. Her clothes have mostly dried.

His question comes unexpectedly. “Hori...please tell me...just what gourmet food is?”

“Dunno,” she replies immediately, popping back up to a seated position, “Figure it out yourself.” He’s still going on about that nonsense, even now. Well, maybe it’s progress that he’s even questioning it.

She rummages through her bag, retrieving her cellphone and packing her camera. Sparing a glance at Tsukiyama, Chie sighs and scrolls through her contact list. “You’re really stupid, Tsukiyama-kun. But I like that about you.”

There’s only one thing she can do, now. There’s no way for her to haul Tsukiyama’s dead weight down to street level so that she could shove him into a cab, and leaving him vulnerable in the hands of humans isn’t an option. Chie paces in circles as she waits for the line to answer. The person on the other line is as unpleasant as ever, until she mentions Tsukiyama’s name. The line goes silent, making Chie wonder if they’d gotten disconnected, but then angry foreign cursing follows a second later.

“Kanae-kun will be here soon,” she announces as she ends the call. “I know he doesn’t like me, and there’s something I need to do anyway, so I’ll be off.”

She loops her bag back over her shoulder and walks back over to Tsukiyama, crouching by his side once more. Touches his shoulder. The way he looks at her is an expression she’s never seen him wear. Her instinct is to document it, but her camera is already packed away, so she files it away in her memory. He’s so lost; perhaps she’ll help him, just a little bit. She won’t even charge.

“Tsukiyama-kun?” and she waits until he’s looking at her, and the grin that forms on her mouth is unstoppable, “Can you really die...just for some ‘ingredients’?”

A quivering in his lips threatens to pull them down into a frown. His eyes well up with tears. It’s answer enough. She hopes he realizes it, too.

“Don’t die,” she says as she jumps to the fire escape.


	29. as I fall asleep

There is something wrong with the young master. Ever since Karren and Matsumae had hauled him back home that one summer morning, he appears as though the life has been sucked out of him. Physically, there is nothing wrong with him; the family doctors have ensured them of this. None had dared to suggest an alternative diagnosis.

“Keep him well fed, and he’s sure to turn around,” one had said as he’d packed his medical bag after the examination. He had been their fourth opinion. “It could just be exhaustion or over-exertion.”

But Karren knows this isn’t the case. Shuu-sama had always been strong. Vibrant. Larger than life. What had come home isn’t any of these things.

Shuu-sama has changed.

For one thing, he rarely speaks. His voice has become so wasted from disuse that whenever Shuu-sama actually _does_ say anything, it’s always just above a whisper, thin and papery. Karren has to lean in closely to catch any of it. It makes her feel incredibly improper, although her heart races whenever the words are breathed into her ear.

Most of his words are apologies. It kills Karren to hear them—he will be the master of the family one day. It’s so shameful for him to apologize. They aren’t needed. She wishes she could unhear them.

He’s had to take a leave of absence from school. It’s a waste, Karren had thought as she’d delivered the doctor’s note. Shuu-sama had been close to graduation, close to starting the rest of his life, until-

Until _he_ had shown up.

Then, it had been _Kaneki-kun, Kaneki-kun, Kaneki-kun_. That lowlife had ensnared her Shuu-sama and thrown the course of his entire life off track. He’d taken so much and left Shuu-sama like this. He hadn’t even known what he’d had, the ingrate.

They’ve developed something of a routine since Shuu-sama had come home. Each morning, Karren reports the news while Matsumae wakes and dresses their young master. He’s rarely alert anymore; a glazed look hangs firmly over his eyes, and his moves are sluggish.

Since he refuses to eat, even going as far to refuse glasses of blood, Shuu-sama subsists mainly off a liquid diet of coffee. He’s taken to adding peculiar brown cubes to it. Karren had sniffed one once: it didn’t smell particularly appetizing. She would throw them out, but Shuu-sama hordes them protectively, and aside from that, they keep coming. Neither she nor Matsumae have any idea as to whom keeps sending them (or at least, Matsumae claims she doesn’t), but every Monday morning, a new packet addressed to the young master is left by their doorstep. The first time Karren had brought the delivery to Shuu-sama, he had held the package with a forlorn expression and had sobbed. They refrain from giving him the packages, anymore; now, they include three cubes with his morning pot of coffee. It’s easier this way.

Shuu-sama spends most of the day sleeping. He’s not completely bedridden, although he’s getting there: he drifts around the house like a specter, sometimes, aimless and silent. He never stays in one place for long. Most times, Karren discovers him surrounded by books or collapsed in the garden, fast asleep in the grass. Other times, it’s a toss-up: underneath a desk, sitting at the formal dining table, in the hallway just outside his bedroom door. Whenever he goes missing—which is often—Matsumae summons Karren, and together they carry the young master back to his bed.

Where he’s safe.

Sometimes, there are glimmers where it appears that Shuu-sama has returned to them. Once, Karren had crossed him in the kitchen, attempting to make coffee. His hands had shaken so much that they couldn’t hold down the button for the grinder, and coffee grounds had spilled all over the countertop when he’d tried measuring them out. Karren had gently guided her master’s hands away when Shuu-sama had made to fill the reservoir with water, lest he electrocute himself. Another time, he’d sat at his computer and had managed to turn it on, but he’d become lost past that step. Karren had watched from the doorway with a heavy heart as Shuu-sama had stared at the login screen for well over an hour, hands poised over the keyboard but unmoving.

In the beginning, Shuu-sama had refused to let anyone near him, and his hair had grown a measure. It had taken pleading to their head butler to get him to rather forcibly throw their master into the tub to keep up his hygiene. Mairo had cried openly as Shuu-sama had thrashed about, waiting for him to calm. The incident had ended in their master’s tears. They haven’t had problems since then, but Karren bites back bitter tears whenever she assists her Shuu-sama to the bathroom, feeling his brittle bones creak underneath thin skin.

The only way to get Shuu-sama to eat actual food is to wait until he’s exhausted and then press the meat to his lips. Karren feels guilty for doing this, but he’s her most important person. She must keep him alive, even if he doesn’t want to be.

In the evenings, Karren and Matsumae draw the curtains and bid him goodnight, but Shuu-sama always looks so sad and disturbed, on verge of tears, and Karren doesn’t know why. She knows not to ask.

Each morning repeats like the last. More often than not, Shuu-sama falls victim to nightmares. Karren can only tell they’ve happened when she finds him twisted in his sheets and soaked with sweat—her master doesn’t even have the voice to scream.

Karren longs to hear Shuu-sama’s proper voice, full of song. She’s starting to forget what it had sounded like. She laments the lost days where she would play her violin under Shuu-sama’s window, when his hands had spun music from white and black keys, humming along.

Shuu-sama—this family—is all Karren has left. They are hers.

Kaneki Ken has taken so much from her.

With each day that passes, the likelihood of the Shuu-sama of the past returning—so radiant and dazzling—diminishes. The once jubilant person she had fallen in love with has wasted away into a shade of his former self. He’s lost his luster. Who he once was has been stolen.

But to Karren, Shuu-sama is still beautiful. Will always be beautiful. He has now become her _Dornröschen_ , and she will protect him as he slumbers. In time, she will surely be the one to awaken him.

The hate that twists within Karren grows with each passing day. This is all Kaneki Ken’s fault. That pig. The very thought of _jenem Dreckskerl_ turns Karren’s stomach and brings bile to her throat. He should be glad he’s dead, because Karren would kill him herself if he were still breathing, while her master continued to waste away. She would skewer him right through the heart, _ohn_ _e Reue_ , and her master would be none the wiser.

He wouldn’t even deserve that kind of death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to headcanon that Yomo keeps tabs on everyone, and he looked out for Tsukiyama in his own way ;)


	30. his glowing absence

Tsukiyama waits. For what, he does not know. Waiting to forget, waiting to die, waiting for the pain to disappear.

Waiting for someone who will never return.

His life ended years ago on that rooftop. Tsukiyama no longer lives; he merely exists. A wraith hovering at the edge of life, waiting for the veil to pass. Such a pitiful existence, but no one is kind enough to put him out of his misery, even himself.

A phone that does not ring has become his sleeping companion. Tsukiyama often finds himself staring at one contact in his address book, willing the person to call. To tell him to come home. The one time he had dared to press the button that would connect them, all Tsukiyama had gotten was a crushing recorded message: _this phone number cannot be reached_. His own phone remains silent. The characters of _his_ name have been etched into Tsukiyama’s brain. Every night, he falls asleep to a dimly-lit screen, bright in the darkness of his prison.

The last night they had spent together, Kaneki had been tender, gentle—as though Tsukiyama were something to be treasured. He’d smiled—laughed, even—and had stroked Tsukiyama’s face as they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. A whispered goodnight, barely audible as Kaneki had drifted off to dreams. In that moment, Tsukiyama had felt completely content and utterly terrified.

He’d known he would never recover.

The next morning, Kaneki had separated from him, and not even a week later, Kaneki had left him for good. He’d gone to where Tsukiyama could not follow, despite his pleas for Kaneki to stay.

Tsukiyama loves his city. It provides entertainment, pleasures, a place to hunt, opportunities to feel strong, to feel alive. Tokyo had been his playground. But now when he thinks of the outside, only bitter memories remain. Places where they had gone, or where Tsukiyama had wanted to take him. Places where they had met, where there had been betrayal and trust, promises and dreams and sharing of secrets. The creation of secrets. Everything now carries a thread of Kaneki, but that thread has been cut, and it drags behind Tsukiyama lifelessly. This world and its glimmering city have become something he both loves and hates, and the night’s star-filled sky has become a void that refuses to welcome him.

Anything that he had once prided himself upon has been destroyed. His physique, which he’d once maintained to perfection, has wasted away from neglect. The Gourmet no longer exists. Not only has he disappeared from the maps, but Tsukiyama has also lost the tools for his gourmet pursuit. He cannot taste any longer—that sense has mostly abandoned him, as has his ability to smell. Everything has dulled. Even the air in his lungs tastes stale.

Nothing interests Tsukiyama anymore. The servants fuss over him and tell him encouraging words. They all keep up the facade that he’ll one day get better and return to the person he used to be, that his future still lies as the family head. But it’s a farce. He’s too far gone. He would scream, if he had the voice to do it.

Perhaps the biggest loss after Kaneki is the fact that Tsukiyama no longer reads. When he’d still had use of his legs, he would sometimes retreat to the family library and attempt to lose himself in the world of fiction, as he’d done so many times before during periods of difficulty. He had been hoping for solace, but what Tsukiyama had found had only been a harsh reminder in the form of a collection of classical poetry. If he’d had the energy to throw the book across the room, Tsukiyama would have. Instead, it had slipped from his dead fingers onto the floor, pages spread open like a blood eagle, and he had soon joined it.

One of the works had struck too close to home.   

> _Lying all alone,_  
>  _Through the hours of the night,_  
>  _Till the daylight comes:  
>  Can you realize at all  
>  The emptiness of that night?_

Before, he once was mobile enough to pass time wandering the house, but now Tsukiyama is confined indefinitely to his bed. Surely, he will die like this. It wouldn’t even be a satisfying ending—just a gradual slip into death’s cold embrace. But there is nothing he can do. Nothing, except continue to breathe, push oxygen into his failing organs and muscles, keep his heart beating so that it can send blood to his brain. So that he lives another day. He’s worthless. He’s a burden. Tsukiyama feels so guilty, but there is nothing he can do.

Kaneki is gone. His world is gone.

Tsukiyama is still lying on that rooftop.

He remembers every kiss and touch. Every tearing of skin and breaking of bone. Kaneki’s weight as it pressed against him. Each precious moment where Kaneki could have been happy. It’s torture. He is not dead, but he is in hell.

He’ll never know what Kaneki tasted like. Tsukiyama will never smell his mild and warm fragrance again, hold his strong yet fragile body, find shelter in his embrace ever again.

But he still hears Kaneki’s voice.

Each night, Kaneki visits him in his dreams. He’s in the battlesuit Tsukiyama made for him, mask like a cowl around his neck. He enters through Tsukiyama’s window and stands by his bedside, staring down at Tsukiyama with a blank expression, his white hair like a halo. The first time this had happened, Tsukiyama had wept in his sleep, and when he had awoken, he had spent the day staring out his window. Kaneki only ever says one thing. “Die for me,” he asks, and when Tsukiyama hesitates, Kaneki fades away, and the dream ends. Nearly three years later, and Tsukiyama still fails at this request. He wonders if Kaneki’s spirit wishes to drag him into the grave with him for that night, or if it’s a request to end his loneliness.

He still feels so guilty. It’s his fault for failing to stop Kaneki, for not fulfilling his promise to always be by Kaneki’s side. For not protecting Kaneki from himself. What a useless sword he had been. He had left his master alone.

When Tsukiyama does not dream of Kaneki, he does not dream at all. Sleep is an empty abyss, where he is alone and trapped between the surface of his mind and the shadow of the infinite. Sometimes the emptiness is comforting: being able to forget who he is and what he’s been through, even if it’s only a temporary respite. But other times, the emptiness is a frightening place, where he claws at the remnants of his identity and begs for release.

Tsukiyama does not know how much longer he will last. He’s pushed his body too far, and his kakuhou has become so starved for nutrients that it’s begun to eat himself. There’s only so much that coffee can provide for him, even with Kaneki’s old “sugar” cubes, and the times that Kanae has tried to feed him proper meat have become fewer and infrequent. He can no longer control his kagune. It leaks out some days, slithering up his neck, carressing against his cheek. Gouges in and binds to his skin. Sometimes he wishes it would squeeze a little too tightly and just lop his head clean off. He has become numb to the pain, anyway—what harm is physical hurt when he’s broken inside? Tsukiyama is afflicted by this condition for days at a time, before the Rc cells finally break down.

_“Even your meat can be eaten.”_

The Kirishima girl would probably laugh. If only she had known how true her words wound up being—twice-over. Tsukiyama had once needed to eat himself to survive, and now his own body is trying to consume itself. Perhaps this _is_ a fitting way for the Gourmet to end.

Tsukiyama lives the same day after miserable day, cruelly tethered to life. He has lost all distinction of time aside from dreaming and waking. He wonders when dreams will finally overtake him, and he can escape from this cycle of persistence.

One night, Kaneki visits him as he always does, and asks him the same question. Tsukiyama doesn’t try to answer this time, instead opens his arms and waits. Kaneki approaches, sits on the side of his bed, and leans into Tsukiyama’s embrace. It makes Tsukiyama’s chest ache—the strongest feeling he’s experienced in three years’ time.

“You won’t?”

“ _Non, cherie_. It’s not that I won’t, but that I can’t. Something keeps me here. Maybe I’m afraid that if I die, I’ll never see you again.” Tsukiyama has never voiced these thoughts before, not even to himself. Perhaps he didn’t know until this moment. Kaneki had asked him to wait for him, all those years ago; at least in this, he has stayed true.

“You need to take care of yourself. I want you to be happy.” Kaneki smiles at him, a flashback to their final moments together. Tsukiyama feels the thread that binds them like a noose around his neck.

Tsukiyama falls asleep with Kaneki in his arms. It’s the first time in almost a year that his rest is serene. Kaneki doesn’t appear in his dreams again, but each time Tsukiyama sleeps, he feels a warm weight next to him.

He begins to eat again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tanka by Mother of Michitsuna, translation by Clay MacCauley (revised by the [Japanese Text Initiative](http://jti.lib.virginia.edu/japanese/index.html)).


	31. the one you were waiting for

> _the geysers flooding from deep in its vault:  
>  _ _in my mouth I felt the taste of fire again,  
>  _ _of blood and carnations, of rock and scald._

 

Death arrives in the form of someone who looks like his younger self, an envelope pinched between their two fingers.

It’s the middle of spring. Tsukiyama feels as though he’s risen from the grave. By miracle or some sadistic heavenly prank, he is not the only one.

Kaneki is alive. He looks different, but healthy, and it’s that last fact that cuts at Tsukiyama, although he is so, so grateful. But there’s something off about Kaneki—something odd that Tsukiyama can’t exactly pin from just a photograph, but… Regardless, Kaneki still exists in this world, and that’s a wondrous thing. Tsukiyama’s heart still aches. Tears stream down his face, beyond his control. The floodgates have opened.

“Kanae...tell me everything…”

“His name is Sasaki Haise,” Kanae begins, a grim expression on his face. “The name was given to him after he had been fatally injured by...a certain ghoul investigator. The CCG took him in.” He takes a step forward, closer to the bed, hand shielding his heart. “Shuu-sama, you need to know this. He might look like Kaneki Ken, but he’s still a dove. Our enemy.”

Enemy? His Kaneki? No…

 _“I have often thought of you,” said Estella._ The scene blooms at the front of his mind. Tsukiyama had hoped and prayed for this, and the day has finally arrived.

_“Can you really die...just for some ‘ingredients’?”_

Hori had known all along. All that time he’d wasted… Kaneki hadn’t been “just” food. Tsukiyama had struggled and fought against himself their entire time together, wondering just what Kaneki was to him while not having the ability to fully understand.

But what Tsukiyama had felt had been love. He knows this now, with certainty. Deep down, he had probably known it all along. It had been why he had never killed Kaneki, even when the opportunity had presented itself. Why he had submitted, so many times, and of his own volition. Why Tsukiyama had protected and served, swallowed his pride and begged. It had all been for love. And love had rendered a hole in him, bled him dry and had left him for dead: the deepest wound he had ever suffered.

Kaneki is still alive. The love that had kept Tsukiyama shackled to life for all those barren years is still so real, so powerful and undeniable.

He needs to get better. Stronger. How can he go to Kaneki like this? As he is now, Tsukiyama is a pitiful excuse for a sword, dulled and rusted, deep chips along his blade. A useless weapon unfit for a master.

Sitting in the wheelchair for the first time had been excruciating. His joints had creaked and popped, his hips threatening to dislocate, but Tsukiyama had persevered through the pain. Through the many times he’d toppled over, thrown to merciless concrete. None of that had mattered. Tsukiyama had thrown his pride away; Kaneki is waiting for him. He needs to go to him.

The only way to describe their first encounter is disastrous. Tsukiyama, despite his eagerness, feels insecure and self-conscious at his admittedly shriveled appearance: sunken eyes above hollow cheeks, bony fingers peeking out from a too-large suit jacket, and an overwhelming air of exhaustion. The person he is now is not the person he had once been. Who had proudly stood by Kaneki’s side as his sword and right hand.

His impulsiveness gets the better of him. But Kaneki is calling. There’s no way Kaneki could forget him.

They are mere meters apart. For once, Tsukiyama does not feel the physical agony of his condition as he leaps forward and sprints toward his desire. “Let’s spend time together again, Kaneki-kun!” he says, sending his wish out to the world, “With little Hinami, Banjoi-kun, and the other three…” Yes, Tsukiyama misses them all. He wants to go back.

He quite literally falls on his face. Yet, somehow, Tsukiyama doesn’t feel the least bit embarrassed. He is there—right in front of Kaneki—and-

Kaneki does not recognize him.

If Tsukiyama had had anything in his stomach, it would have bottomed out. It’s so unfair, to be right there next to Kaneki after such a long separation, breathing in same air, hearing his voice—his _actual_ voice and not whisperings in a dream—feeling the solid mass of his body as he had helped Tsukiyama rise to his feet. It is almost cruel to be able to gaze upon Kaneki’s face—he looks so alive and healthy—and be reminded of the chasm now sprung between them by the very wrong coat that covers him.

And yet...it’s as though Kaneki were helping him up from that rooftop, all those years ago.

He is saved from further embarrassment by Kanae. As Tsukiyama is wheeled away through the bustling crowd, shell-shocked and shaking, his thoughts jumble as he processes what had just happened. If Kaneki’s memories truly are gone...then Tsukiyama has to make him remember somehow. There’s no way the Kaneki he knows would willingly work for the CCG.

Their next meeting ends in defeat, although it hadn’t started out that way. Fortune had granted him an audience with Kaneki, alone. Tsukiyama pauses just out of sight and takes a deep breath. He had worked hard and consumed voraciously in order to recover. Although his appearance is significantly better than it had been during the previous incident, Tsukiyama is still weak—his muscles still haven’t fully repaired their fibers, and his joints still inflame at the end of the day. He needs a more significant replenishment of his Rc cells before he will ever get back into the shape he’d held before. But he refuses to turn down an opportunity to win Kaneki back.

“Thank you for helping me the other time,” Tsukiyama says as he approaches the bench where Kaneki is sitting.

Kaneki looks up at him, and there’s recognition in his eyes, but it’s lacking. “Ah. You look much better today.” He smiles sweetly, but there’s something guarded about it. The rare times Kaneki had blessed Tsukiyama with a smile, they had been open and true. It almost makes Tsukiyama want to turn and flee. “And you’re not using your wheelchair.”

Tsukiyama returns a smile of his own, but he knows it’s feeble and thin. At least he has his illness to hide behind. “May I...sit next to you?”

“Go ahead.”

It’s hard to focus with Kaneki so close. While his nose is but a shadow of its old capability, the hint of that familiar scent is enough to send Tsukiyama back in time. Up close, Tsukiyama is able to observe the other and reconcile the photograph to the person: Kaneki’s face is rounder, and his hair is starting to return to its natural black...this is like a second first meeting, although the season and setting are wrong. He finds himself mentally pleading with Kaneki to remember as they retrace a conversation of memory. Tsukiyama can’t help but lean in toward Kaneki, longing to feel him once again. To ensure that the man next to him isn’t some phantom sent to torment him, but that he’s here and real.

_“Now, when suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but—I hope—into a better shape. Be as considerate and good to me as you were, and tell me we are friends.”_

Yes, he has suffered for so long. But everything is worth this moment. Please, please remember…

Things do not go as Tsukiyama had planned. There is something different about Kaneki, and that discrepancy lashes at Tsukiyama as he struggles to maintain direction over their conversation. These are not the answers he had been anticipating. Is Kaneki truly gone? Has he been irreversibly overwritten by this imposter who wears his face?

 _Calmato, be cool…_ He can do this. He is the only one who can do this.

His time is up. Strangers from the other day flock around Kaneki and whisk him away across the barrier between humans and ghouls. Who are these people? Why are they so familiar with Kaneki? Why does Kaneki smile at them so?

“I’m sorry,” Kaneki says as he shrugs on that despicable overcoat, “I have to get back to work. Please take care.”

_“You need to take care of yourself. I want you to be happy.”_

His eyes sting. Once again, Tsukiyama watches Kaneki walk away from him. How could he ever fulfill that request, when he needs Kaneki to complete it? No, this isn’t the time for bitterness…

With Hori’s photos, and a moment to truly be alone with Kaneki, Tsukiyama is sure to return Kaneki’s memories to him. He will not fail Kaneki again. Not only just for his own sake, but for all the others...those at Anteiku, and his little lady… For Yuuma, who had been captured and tortured for his sake, and for Eliza who can’t do anything anymore but cry all day. For everyone who had loved the person born as “Kaneki Ken.”

He needs Kaneki to remember.

 

One...two...third time’s the charm.

It’s the two of them again. There’s no one else in sight. With the sun setting the sky ablaze as it dies over the horizon, it feels as though they are the only ones left as the world ends.

“ _Bonjour_. I apologize for taking up your time the other day.”

Kaneki smiles, enigmatic. It’s unsettling. “No, I’m sorry for having to rush off like that. Actually, I’m glad we met like this,” he says as they ascend up the steps to the park’s clearing. “I thought that if I came here, I’d see you again.”

Tsukiyama’s heart rattles in his chest, like a bird that’s been caged for far too long. Waiting to be freed.

“I made sure to make time today…” Kaneki continues, looking at Tsukiyama.

Something seems suspicious. Tsukiyama’s optimistic mood dives. He legs tremble with each upward step; they want to run—take him far from this place and from this person. His kakuhou quakes with tremors, kagune itching to burst and strike.

“Are you a ghoul?” The gray eyes that stare back at him are piercing. “Ah, I’m sorry. You see, I’m an investigator, and a lot of strange encounters have been following me around. Let me rephrase that.”

His ears are ringing; he doesn’t quite hear the questions. Everything is enveloped in orange. He can feel his pulse ticking rapidly under his collar. This can’t be a trap. Kaneki wouldn’t do that to him-

“Did you know Kaneki Ken?”

Hearing that name pour from those lips—in _that_ voice—brings Tsukiyama back to the present. One thing he had promised himself when he had learned that Kaneki had not died had been not to lie to Kaneki after they had been reunited. He cannot break that now.

Sasaki takes a step closer. Tsukiyama has to dig his heels in not to step backward. “I’ve come here as Sasaki Haise, not as an investigator with the CCG. I want to know—no, I need to know. I can’t keep running from this. So please, if you know anything, tell me.”

Tsukiyama wants to tell him so badly. He needs Kaneki’s help so badly. His family is being hunted. But Kirishima’s words tumble through his mind and worm their way under his skin.

_“Do you think it’s okay for him to discard his current life? Are memories or names worth that much? He’s not the same.”_

He sees that now. Once upon a time, he’d been such a selfish creature. He is still so selfish. He skirts the request, cautious. “But if knowing means you would have to abandon your life as it is now, would you still want it?”

Sasaki threads his hands and scrapes the fingernails of his thumbs together, ducking his head. “I was a ‘ghoul’ to them... They fled from me, scared. Called me ‘Eyepatch.’” He laughs a little, short and breathless and devoid of mirth. “I don’t want to be that: an existence feared by ghouls. I want my life to remain as it is now, forever, but I know it’s not possible. Something like fate is pushing me back. There’s no other option but to remember, so if it has to happen, I want it to be of my own doing. On my own terms.” He looks up, and his eyes are shining. “Please…”

Ah, this Kaneki...so vulnerable and soft. Weak, just like he had been at the beginning, without all the hardship and terror. A protective urge flares through Tsukiyama, strong and horrible.

Hori had known...he wouldn’t die. Not for something stupid and simple such as ingredients. But for something—someone—important.

Tsukiyama doesn’t want Kaneki to disappear again. If only they could return to those days.

He turns. One foot in front of the other in succession. He does not look back. His resolve would shatter if he did.

 

He still feels groggy from the drugged coffee. Tsukiyama doesn’t want to trust his eyes.

This is a scene from another life.

But this time, instead of Kaneki leaving him, he is the one who needs to flee. Not for death, but for life. Just when he had finally found him… What a sick joke.

Tsukiyama drudges up his voice; he needs to buy time. “Taking pity on me?”

This is not how it was meant to be.

“I’ve been ordered to exterminate you. It’s beyond my control. But before we fight, I want to talk with you.” There is a quinque in Sasaki’s hands. It’s long and thin, tapering to a point. Like a sword. It’s as though life is laughing while it curses him.

“So you can finally learn about yourself before you kill me?” It’s hard to keep the harshness out of his tone. He feels so raw. He’s lost so much in just one short night, and now he will lose his last vestige of hope. Tsukiyama would laugh back at life, but all he feels like doing is crying.

“Please surrender. I would take ownership over you.”

There is no need. Tsukiyama belongs to Kaneki. That this person doesn’t realize this…

He has no choice. So many sacrifices have been made for his sake. Papa has been captured and will surely be disposed of after the doves have siphoned what they want out of him. If what happened to Yuuma is any indication, Papa is better off dead. All of the ghouls he’d met for the first time tonight, bound by loyalty, have fallen. And just a floor below him, Matsumae and Mairo take their last stand so that he can escape. Entrusting their future to him.

He is the last Tsukiyama. He must persevere. Even if his opponent is love.

“Surrender? I would never.” It kills Tsukiyama to do this. To finally have Kaneki know who he is, even if the memories are no longer there.

He takes the first strike; it catches Sasaki by surprise. At least this way, perhaps it will be easier. If he had to battle against Kaneki...he wouldn’t be able to do it.

His kagune unwinds. It feels foreign and heavy from disuse. He wills himself to become the Gourmet again, although Tsukiyama abhors the resurrection. “Everyone who has sacrificed so much for me...my body isn’t my own, now. I will fight to survive.”

Each blow that connects is a stab to his own heart. It feels like betrayal.

“Mister Sasaki, you’re not the person I know.” It’s a lie. Tsukiyama would know him anywhere. Just because a piece of Kaneki is missing doesn’t mean that he is no longer Kaneki.

Sasaki stares up at him as he drags himself back to his feet. “How will you survive on your own? Going like this is suicide.”

Hadn’t he said that before to Kaneki? Everything about this meeting is so stupid. Why must it be this way? Why can’t he save even one person?

Tsukiyama lunges. Blocks. Parries. It’s all so familiar; they’ve done this countless times. The patterns have been engraved into Tsukiyama’s body, mapped into his bones and muscles. Sasaki, too, moves in the same way. This is history repeating.

Perhaps there’s still hope that Tsukiyama can make him remember. Kaneki may be Sasaki now, but he is still Tsukiyama’s most important person. Things like missing memories will never change that.

_“I think it’s fine if Kaneki doesn’t come back. Maybe it’s even better.”_

He had been wrong. Maybe if he hadn’t rushed things, they could have met and fallen in love again in the same way. Over books and coffee, quiet talks and stolen kisses. Tsukiyama had squandered his second chance.

He is so, so sorry… Kaneki had been reborn as Sasaki; into a new life. A fresh chance. Tsukiyama has ruined all that.

Kaneki is right in front of him, yet they are so far apart. How will his heart even reach the other’s? It’s such a sad and lonely feeling that eats away at him—a different kind of hunger, one he will never be able to satisfy.

And he fails, yet again.

“Kill me,” he pleads through the blood that has risen up to his lips. Tsukiyama would rather die by Kaneki’s hand than to live alone or to spend the last of his days imprisoned and forgotten. Long ago, Papa had told him to find a passionate love. At least if death is dealt by his love’s hand...well, it’s a small consolation, but it would be romantic.

Tsukiyama loves this person so much. Just when he had finally left that rooftop, he returns, but this will be his true end. His mind drifts backward in time, passing through memories he had only learned to cherish belatedly. It stops at one that had been inconsequential: just him and Kaneki, reading together in companionable silence.

If only he had known, Tsukiyama would have better appreciated their time together. But he had taken it for granted. Perhaps they would have traveled a different path. But perhaps Tsukiyama could only have come to value Kaneki through separation and loss.

_“To me, parting is a painful thing. To me, the remembrance of our last parting has been ever mournful and painful.”_

If he is to part from Kaneki once more, then it will be through death taking him.

Tsukiyama prays to a god that has surely abandoned him. Please, if there is anything in Kaneki that remembers, Tsukiyama wants to see it before he dies.

Above him, Kaneki shakes, his breathing erratic. Grinds his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. Tsukiyama can see the veins bulge and tense along the other’s neck. Tears mix with sweat and fall onto Tsukiyama’s face.

He wants to reach up and wipe those tears away, hold Kaneki and tell him everything will be alright. It would be the one lie he would allow himself.

Ah. So this is love.

He feels so full yet so hollow. A part of Tsukiyama has opened, and it can never be closed. No matter where he goes from here, he has finally come home.

_“Please live. Please survive.”_

It’s a promise he must break. He’s so sorry. He’s wasted all their efforts—their very lives. In the end, he isn’t worth it. Tsukiyama had tried, but…

_“From the start, this life was yours.”_

Matsumae… He also has someone to whom he could say that.

He cannot move. He is trapped, but there is nowhere for him to go. He is exactly where he wants to be. “How I’ve waited for you,” Tsukiyama says, scarcely above a whisper. He bares his neck: a final offering. Waits.

The wound is already there. Kaneki had given it to him. If he so chooses to tear it open, then Tsukiyama will not fight it. Some injuries never fully heal.

His life has not belonged to him since long before this night. Tsukiyama had pledged it, ages ago, when he had been young and arrogant and so utterly foolish.

In a moment separated from the fabric of time and space, the two finally close their distance. Doves, ghouls, burning helicopters, possibilities of escape, duty—all be damned for this one last connection.

Kaneki smiles through choked-back tears. It’s pained and so very real. “I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading until the end! I would love to hear your thoughts on this little project - comments are greatly appreciated! :3


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